


The Study of the Four

by nightmares06, The_Raconteur_24601



Series: Brothers Consulted [1]
Category: Sherlock (TV), Sherlock Holmes & Related Fandoms, Supernatural, The Borrowers
Genre: America, American - Freeform, Borrower Sam, Britain, British, Crossover, G/T, Gen, Giant/Tiny, London, TINY - Freeform, biscuit, bitty bros, borrower dean, cookie - Freeform, g/t story, g/t writing, giant, sherlock g/t, sherlock gt, superlock, supernatural g/t, supernatural gt, the borrowers crossover
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-03-09
Updated: 2018-06-27
Packaged: 2018-09-30 18:36:06
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 22
Words: 65,734
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/10169288
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/nightmares06/pseuds/nightmares06, https://archiveofourown.org/users/The_Raconteur_24601/pseuds/The_Raconteur_24601
Summary: Saving people, solving crimesThe flatmate businessOver a decade ago, a serious of unfortunate events led to the Winchesters, at only a few inches in height, being forcibly relocated to London. Now, they’ve adjusted to their size and found a new home to live in that just happens to be the same residence of a certain detective and his blogger…





	1. A Sign of Four

"C'mon! Give me a hand!"  
  
With one last glance around the room for any obvious dangers he’d missed, Sam darted over to Dean's side. It was the small hours of the morning, before the humans in the flat would start waking up and well after the night owl had gone to bed.  
  
For them, the best time.  
  
Sam skidded to a halt next to Dean, staring down at the newspaper under their boots. One of the humans living in the flat-- the consulting detective, not the doctor-- had left it out for a case he was working on. Despite everything the two Winchesters had been through in their lives, they were driven to help solve the case, especially after they noticed a small detail that had gone overlooked.  
  
Years ago, the two brothers had been the same size as any other human. They'd lived on the road with their dad, moving from town to town while John Winchester hunted. Unquestionably one of the best monster hunters around, _his_ overconfidence had been _their_ undoing.  
  
A witch had caught the family off guard, cursing the two young children to live out their lives at nearly a twentieth of the size they should be. Dean could remember that night with painful clarity. A tall woman with long blonde hair staring him down as she threw him against the wall. _Laughing_ at his pathetic attempts to escape. Holding up her hands and hitting Sam with a flash of light, making him vanish into thin air before turning the same attack on Dean.  
  
There was no one there to save them from her. And then _waking…_  
  
Finding their entire world out of reach. Waking up in the clutches of the witch, and despairing as they were shoved into a cloth hexbag.  
  
Escape had been their first priority, but in trying to find their father and get back to where they belonged, they'd been caught yet _again,_ this time by someone who assumed they were no better than _animals,_ and sold them off as pets across the seas. _That_ memory made Dean’s lip curl. Going to find help had instead resulted in being captured all over again, this time by normal, _opportunistic_ humans, who had shipped them off to some British supplier of ‘exotic’ pets.  
  
Anytime he recalled that traumatizing plane ride, Dean would shudder. They had been taken away from everything they knew, their father, the Impala, even their entire _country,_ with events spiraling out of their control. The future was grim.  
  
Of course, no humans expected for two ‘pets’ to be able to pick a lock, and so the brothers had once more escaped. Fully aware now of the danger other humans posed, they'd gone underground.  
  
Literally.  
  
The two tiny children were discovered by people _their own size_ , shivering and curled together for warmth, in a dark corner of the wall they'd found. Everything was huge, nothing was safe. Food was out of reach and humans were dangerous. That night had become a turning point in their lives. With the help of their new family, they'd adapted as much as anyone could be expected to.  
  
But they were afraid to admit to their former humanity after discovering what humans could do to people like them firsthand.  
  
Their new home in this flat seemed ideal. Though a few rumors floated around about how odd the humans inside were, keeping others far away, Sam and Dean had discovered a nice layout inside its walls. So long as they never came close to the giant humans, and with Sam's strange knack that let him _know_ when someone was looking for them, that didn't look like it'd be a problem.  
  
Dean balanced the huge pen he was holding, pointing it at the words under their boots. Sam steadied him and helped him draw a circle. If the human glanced at this part of the paper, he'd see a clue he missed. Maybe, in their own way, they could help save some people. Just like their father had raised them to do.  
  
After finishing off the circle, Dean let the pen drop. "Right," he muttered, glancing around the room with a keen eye. "Let's just see if there's any crumbs around then head back. We did what we could."  
  


* * *

  
Sherlock Holmes frowned as he lay above the covers in his bed. He hadn't bothered to change out of the clothes he'd worn that day, only managing to kick his shoes off before assuming his usual posture of deep thought. With his hands steepled under his chin, he could close his eyes and concentrate on every little detail of the case that had baffled him and Scotland Yard for the last three days.  
  
Four murders within the same hour, spread far and wide across London. The victims were seemingly unrelated, but the criminals, who were all arrested with minimal trouble, clearly were in league. They shared a Celtic tattoo on their left temples, some sort of symbol for their mysterious and elusive gang.  
  
In addition, they all had ginger hair, which earned them the moniker 'The Red-Headed League' in the papers as well as Sherlock's partner John Watson's blog.  
  
Despite the perpetrators being caught and jailed, something still felt off about the whole affair. Even Detective Inspector Lestrade could smell something fishy. They needed to know what connected the murders other than the killers. They needed to know what they had hoped to accomplish, if there were others involved, if civilians were still in danger.  
  
Days later, Sherlock had driven himself half mad still trying to piece it all together, pinning clipping after clipping to the wall and connecting them with tape and string until he'd deduced himself into a corner and tore it all down again to start over.  
  
Nothing was adding up. Even the killers had seemingly no reason to know one another, apart from their facial markings. Their families, professions, hometowns, all different with no clear thread connecting them.  
  
It was on cases like this that Sherlock made use of every waking moment. In his mind palace, he could go back and scrutinize everything he knew, everything he learned that day, for anything he might have missed. This would continue deep into the wee hours of the morning until his body gave in and he slept for a few short hours.  
  
He awoke scowling at the ceiling and, after reviewing the major points of the case once more in his head, stumbled out of bed in search of coffee. He had no sense of what time it was, only that he needed to get to work immediately. After coffee.  
  
While he waited for the brew, he glanced at the kitchen table. It was covered in the discarded clippings, as well as yesterday's paper, left open to the newest story on the case. He rolled his eyes as he remembered reading that particular article: no new details, just a bundle of _sentiment_ displayed for the victims. Sherlock understood that deaths were tragic, but he argued that if they were going to talk about it, they could at least bring up something _useful._ John had given him quite the disdainful look for that suggestion, and evidently kept the article around anyway.  
  
He blinked when he noticed something was off. A pen lay across the paper, one he was certain hadn't been there the night before. He leaned in closer to find a small phrase circled within the article he'd so easily brushed off.  
  
**next of kin**  
  
His brow knit as he considered the inexplicably highlighted words. Had John done that? Sherlock had found lately that whenever he got stuck on a case, he'd eventually find some overlooked detail underlined or circled. If it _was_ John, why didn't he just come forward and say it?  
  
One conundrum at a time. He ignored the steady drip of coffee into the pot in favor of grabbing the nearest laptop and typing rapidly. He googled all of the victims, stalking their Facebook pages and scouring their family trees. After three minutes of inhaling the black coffee fumes, he hit a breakthrough. He immediately dashed back to his room, the article in hand, and dialed Lestrade's personal number. Ordinarily he’d prefer to text, but his thoughts were coming faster than he could type so he settled.  
  
“ _Sherlock?_ ” came the man's gravelly voice after three rings. “ _It's five in the sodding morning, you better have a damn good explanation for--!_ ”  
  
"The Red-Headed League is a red herring," Sherlock interrupted.  
  
“ _W-what?_ ”  
  
"It wasn't about the victims, it was about their _next of kin_ ," he emphasized as he paced back down the hallway with another glance at the paper. "They all have close relatives or lifelong friends who are dropping everything to mourn their deaths. And they all have one person in their snuffed-out lives who resides in a house. One with a basement, and happens to be right next door to a vaulted bank. Now that the house is empty, someone associated with the killers can attempt to break in from below."  
  
A sluggish pause. “ _But there's all kinds of alarms and trip systems that could be activated if they tried to dig through. This isn't the Dark Ages, Sherlock._ ”  
  
"Not if they've got a man on the inside. Highly doubt they'd even attempt a burglary like this if they didn't. John!" He marched out of the flat and up the stairs to the spare bedroom his friend still insisted on sleeping in.  
  
“ _Bloody hell, Sherlock, wake up the whole damn parish, why don't ya!_ ” fussed Lestrade. Sherlock ignored him and knocked rapidly on John's door.  
  
"I'm sending John over with the details. You've got to find the people I've listed and protect them. They could be next if they return before the endeavor's over. And when you find the house, don't be shocked if the landlord turns up dead. Loose ends." With that he hung up, cutting off Lestrade's protest right as John opened the door with a glare.  
  
Sherlock displayed the paper, indicating the circled phrase. "Why didn't you tell me about this?"  
  
John gave a world-weary sigh. "Sherlock…"  
  
"This was _vital information_ , I don't see what purpose withholding it serves for you--!"  
  
"For God's sake, Sherlock, shut up!" snapped John. Sherlock fell silent. "I didn’t _withhold_ anything, and I'm not going to Scotland Yard at this ungodly hour, now piss off."  
  
As John was closing the door, Sherlock slammed a hand on the wood to stop it. "What about Lestrade? He needs this list--!"  
  
"Christ, send the man a ruddy email and _let me sleep!_ ” In a burst of frustration, John slammed the door in Sherlock's face.  
  
The detective stood there a moment longer, now confused. He descended the stairs dully to do what John had told him, what he really should have thought of in the first place.  
  
_This is what I get for working without coffee,_ he silently grouched as he poured himself a cup and skulked back to the laptop.  
  
Even as he typed, he kept looking at the newspaper. John had denied leaving the furtive clue. Sherlock had to wonder, then, who had.  
  


* * *

  
Up in the walls, out of any sight or knowledge of the humans residing within the flat, Dean practically preened himself as he watched their strange human, Sherlock, finally solve the case and put the police onto the _real_ threat. People would be saved, their humans would be thanked for making the connection, and no one would know there were people living in the walls, keeping track of all the goings on at 221B Baker Street.  
  
Dean didn't mind that it was unlikely they'd ever be thanked for their help. It was enough to know that Sherlock and John knew nothing of their uninvited guests. The brothers, at the ages of 26 and 22, had already had hard lives. They'd learned to appreciate what little good they could find, and every moment of freedom was something to cherish after a brief glimpse of life in captivity. Saving people was more important than gratitude from people who'd see them as closer to animals instead of people themselves.  
  
Though, as Dean inhaled the heavenly aroma of the coffee Sherlock had made, he had to admit he wouldn't mind a cup of the dark elixir. Just one.  
  
"I still got it," Dean said, congratulating himself.  
  
"You might want to keep it down," came a dry voice from behind. "Don't want them hearing us and figuring out who's been messing with their shit."  
  
Dean turned quick to find Sam standing behind him. It shouldn't surprise him so much, especially since they were never far apart. Being the only two living in these walls, they didn't want to risk one getting in trouble while the other was out of range. Sam walked as softly as anyone Dean had ever met, though he was one of the tallest people their size.  
  
" 'Scuse me for talkin,’ " Dean complained back. "I think even Bobby'd be proud of figuring _that_ one out." He waved an arm at the bullethole in the wall he was using to survey the room beyond, made during one of Sherlock's unpredictable bouts of boredom. The brothers had learned early on in their stay at 221B to take cover if that happened because there was no telling what Sherlock would do.  
  
From the opening in the wall the bullet holes gave them, they could hear the humans' voices from anywhere in the flat, though Dean was sure to keep back from the edge. He might be okay with climbing, but he didn't want to push his luck with any heights considering just _how_ high up they were. Enough to put them out of easy reach if they were heard.  
  
"In fact," Dean said, hitching up his leather duffel bag and starting to lead the way back to the home they shared, "I think we've earned a snack tonight. None of this 'crumbs' business. They won't miss one cookie."  
  
"Biscuit," Sam corrected by habit. He'd learned the local slang faster than Dean after their abrupt relocation to England.  
  
"Whatever."  
  


* * *

  
Sherlock spent the rest of the day in a haze, despite it being uncommonly busy around the flat. Business usually sparked after the stranger, more publicized cases were solved. And it was _always_ the boring clients that came in.  
  
"I _know_ my wife's having an affair."  
  
"It's my keys, they've just vanished into thin air, I've turned the place over a thousand times--!"  
  
"Honestly, I have no idea where it all came from, but someone must have broken in and stashed the smack in my flat--"  
  
Dull. _Very_ dull. Tell it to Scotland Yard.  
  
One after another, they kept pouring in and Sherlock turned them all away.  
  
By the evening, he was zoned out on the couch, staring numbly at the ceiling with a soft groan every now and then as his body absorbed nicotine from the trio of patches along his arm. John, ever helpful, was browsing their usual websites for potential cases. He called out the interesting ones to Sherlock, but the man remained unresponsive.  
  
Finally, John had enough. Closing his laptop, he went to stand over Sherlock's prone form, trying and failing to make eye contact.  
  
"What's going on with you today?" he asked, his concern as a friend mixing with his bedside manner. "You've had seven cups of coffee in the last hour alone. You haven't taken a single case, and yet here you are, moping on the couch apparently dealing with a three-patch problem." He gestured pointedly to the patches peeking out of his rolled-up sleeve.  
  
Sherlock's eyes narrowed at whatever spot on the ceiling he was staring at, then he reached lazily for the box underneath the couch and ripped open another patch.  
  
John's brow rose. "Seriously. Four patches?"  
  
"You took my cigarettes," Sherlock reminded him, slapping the patch onto his other arm before relaxing into his prayer-like pose and closing his eyes. "Need to think."  
  
John waited a moment, nodding when he was sure that was all he was going to get out of him. He stalked into the kitchen, reviewing the state Sherlock had left it in. The kitchen table was clear for once, but his instruments and beakers and test tubes still cluttered the kitchen counter. He sighed at the state of their poor coffee maker, resolving to _not_ deal with that until Sherlock crawled his way out of this funk.  
  
"Well, hope you're happy. We're out of milk," he piped up as he checked on the fridge. No response from the detective, just as John expected. Pickings were a bit thin in that department anyways, so he gathered his wallet and keys.  
  
"Gonna make a grocery run. Back in twenty," he muttered for Sherlock's benefit on his way out.  
  
"Nope," Sherlock called after him. It was the weekend, so their normal grocery stop would be closed early. John would have to go to the 24 hour mini-mart further down for anything worthwhile, which would take much longer. John, of course, wouldn't realize this until later, so he simply rolled his eyes at his eccentric friend and left.  
  
Sherlock sighed and relaxed down into the couch. He sluggishly peeled off the three older patches, crumpled them together and tossed the ball in the kitchen's general direction without opening his eyes. He'd already gotten up once to put on his blue silk robe, no use expending more energy than he had to until something actually happened.  
  
Something _was_ going to happen, Sherlock was sure of it. He didn't often work reliant on a hunch, but this particular case felt unique. Personal, even.  
  
Did that necessarily mean he knew what to expect? Absolutely not, but he needed to be ready for anything. So, with one last stroke to smooth down his remaining nicotine patch, Sherlock curled in toward the back of the couch, evening out his breaths. He often fell asleep here on days like this, only this time he was wide-awake and listening.


	2. Miscalculation

Dean waited a few minutes after hearing the human’s breathing even out into sleep rhythms. At their size, the sound was loud and clear, signaling it was safe to move around so long as they didn’t wake him.  
  
“Anythin?’ " he asked Sam, glancing over his shoulder.  
  
Sam shook his head, his long, poofy hair flying up into a mess. No matter how many times Dean complained about the length, he refused to trim it, and flatly rejected any of Dean’s offers to ‘help’ him with a new haircut.  
  
It wasn’t like he was going to take _much_ hair off. Just enough so Sam didn’t look so messy all the time.  
  
“Nothing,” Sam confirmed. He had the ability to know when someone was seeking them out. It was haphazard and worked best when the human was staring in their direction, but Dean wanted to take no chances. This trip was already dangerous enough. He just didn’t feel like waiting _forever_ for the odd pair living there to finally go to their bedrooms. John wasn't even home and Sherlock might not move the rest of the night.  
  
With Sherlock out cold and motionless aside from the gentle breathing of a sleeping man, Dean judged it safe enough so long as Sam kept an ear out for them. He cautiously nudged aside the wallpaper, letting light spill into the insides of the wall and wash over them both. They blinked rapidly, trying to clear up their vision. After over a decade of living in dark walls and passages, it was easier to adjust to the darkness than it was to the light, and they could see clearly on the darkest night.  
  
“This way,” Dean said, determined and cheered at the thought of eating something with a little more taste than normal. It wasn’t the same as finding a slice of pie left out on the counter, but it would do. They just needed their luck to hold out.  
  
The lingering smell of coffee teased him, but he forced it out of his mind. There weren’t any coffee cups left on the counter, and he wasn’t about to stick his head in a coffee maker for a rare caffeine fix. The biscuits were enough risk for one day.  
  
Together they made their way through a meandering path around the glassware and tools left out, a constant clutter accumulated by Sherlock from his ‘experiments.’ They might be willing to help the human solve cases from in hiding, but Dean had no intention of he or Sam ever becoming the _subject_ of those experiments.   
  
Dean took the lead and Sam watched their backs, continually glancing around the towering kitchen from nerves at being out of the walls before the humans had retired. He knew as well as Dean that in this home, that was never assured, and they _did_ need food, be it a biscuit or crumbs or leftover bread. Neither brother wanted to spend the night with empty stomachs, especially after the case was solved because of them. It would be some fucked up karma to leave them hungry after risking their necks to help.  
  
Dean’s knack brought them right to the crumpled package of biscuits, his stomach overriding all other thoughts and making his path as clear as day. So long as he _needed_ something, the tingle on the back of his neck would lead him right to it, be it in the house or across town. Those far away sensations he’d force himself to ignore, knowing they were forever out of reach. Eventually they’d taper off, leaving him to wonder what he was missing.  
  
Sam stood guard while Dean pulled out his silver knife, cutting a thin slit in the package. They couldn’t risk uncrumpling the bag. That might wake up the human lying in the room close by, and that would put them at risk of being caught.  
  


* * *

  
With all his energy and focus set on listening, Sherlock's ear perked up at the smallest noises in the flat. Too distant and quiet to determine exactly _what_ he heard, but enough to know that something was happening.  
  
 _Finally._  
  
He waited until a slightly more distinct sound could be heard, that of paper being carefully sliced through. Sherlock frowned, and it was all he could do to not jump up and investigate right then and there. He needed to be patient if he wanted to be precise in this endeavor. He settled on shifting his head ever so slightly to angle his ear towards the kitchen, keeping up the sleepy charade for whatever his flat had in store for him.  
  


* * *

  
Only a few strides away in the kitchen, Sam shifted uneasily from foot to foot, looking around the room for the tenth time. He saw nothing out of the ordinary, and the human’s breathing was as steady as ever. Yet the feeling remained, heavy on his neck. Like someone was looking for them.  
  
 _Maybe someone’s breaking in?_ Sam wondered before discarding the thought. If someone broke into the flat, they’d have more on their mind than two guys who stood four inches tall and shorter.  
  
“We should hurry,” he said, unable to contain how antsy he was starting to feel out in the open.  
  
Dean paused where he was working on easing out a biscuit. “You feelin’ something?” he asked, keeping his voice low. He trusted Sam’s instincts like they were his own. If Sam said it was time to go, it was time to go.  
  
Sam nodded. “Don’t know what though. Can’t be anything good.”  
  


* * *

  
Voices. Sherlock couldn't explain how or why, but after careful listening, he'd narrowed down the impossible, and the only remaining answer for those astoundingly quiet sounds was that it was some kind of _speech_.   
  
The something he'd been waiting for was a some _one!_  
  
Someone _very_ nervous all of a sudden. “Lemme just…” Dean finished pulling out his claimed ‘cookie,’ boosting it in his arms. He patted down the package, disguising the hole he’d cut. It would blend into the folds in the wrapper, at least until someone opened the package up again.  
  
And by then they'd be hidden away in the walls once more.  
  
The finality of that rustling of paper sealed it for Sherlock, and he rolled smoothly to his feet. His long legs carried him to the kitchen in seconds, where he stood in the entrance and scanned the entire room. Before long, his eyes widened at the sight of two incredibly small figures standing on his countertop, dwarfed by everything around them.  
  
Whatever logical conclusions he'd drawn, nothing could have prepared him for _that_.  
  


* * *

  
Sam stiffened, and before he could warn Dean something was _wrong,_ it was too late.  
  
The human-- _Sherlock_ \-- was standing at the entrance to the kitchen, as tall and imposing as ever, his eyes glued to them. The only warning they got before he arrived had been a sudden cold shock running up Sam’s back.  
  
The trance shattered and Dean was on the move. “Sam, _break!_ ” he shouted, shoving his little brother towards the entrance they’d come from while he darted in the opposite direction. If they split up, their chances of escape doubled. That way, if one of them was caught, the other could attempt a rescue. After the multiple cages they’d been in as children, they’d learned the tricks to survival, as harsh as it seemed for a ten- and fourteen- year old to deal with. Dean’s training with his father had helped him along the way, prepared him for what his future held.  
  
Sam bit back a protest, knowing it was useless. Dean was running. To keep Dean’s sacrifice from being in vain, Sam ran straight into the maze of glassware scattered on the countertop. Every second of delay for the human was another second of freedom, and another chance to get back into the walls.  
  
Sherlock jumped into action as soon as the tiny people were on the move. He quickly worked out their strategy, and the solution was obvious. Reaching over them both, he upended an empty mug and dropped it over the one running with a biscuit. He was heading for the end of the counter anyways, he wouldn't have made it very far.   
  
Darkness fell over Dean as the mug closed over him, and he couldn’t halt his forward momentum in time to stop. He bounced off the wall of the coffee mug, falling on his rear.  
  
Staring up at his trap, Dean’s pupils were wide. He couldn’t stop his mind from thinking _cage!_ at the sight of the walls around him. There was no way he’d be able to lift it up to escape. Even if he was strong enough, there was a human _right there,_ and Sherlock could catch him easily while he messed with the mug.  
  
Discarding the cookie, Dean scrambled to his feet. “Sonovabitch!” he swore, kicking a boot against the solid wall. He desperately wished he could kick his way out like his dad could kick down a door. Now, _that_ would be something.  
  
With the first one taken care of, Sherlock's main priority was the one running through his glass instruments and containers. Clearly his trajectory was more important, and Sherlock needed to intervene before he got away. He waited a few seconds until he had a clear shot, and then his hand darted in and managed to grab hold of the little man's jacket.  
  
Without hesitation, Sherlock lifted his catch out of the mess and up to eye level. His other hand mechanically hovered several inches underneath the miniscule form, a safeguard in case he fell. For a moment, Sherlock was caught up in every minor detail of this human-like thing he'd caught, marveling at how such a creature was even able to function as highly as it seemed to.  
  
Sam, in a sharp contrast to his brother swearing up a storm at the coffee mug, had much more immediate concerns. His legs kicked like he was still running after the pull on his jacket yanked him off his feet. It took a moment for it to sink into his head that the human had him pinched between two fingers, dangling in midair. Sam barely noticed the hand hovering underneath, far too caught up in his predicament.  
  
He reached up over his head, his hands struggling to find a grip on the fingers holding him suspended midair. His hand glanced off the edge of a fingernail, many times thicker than his own and too smooth to find a grip.  
  
That was all he had the chance to do. His jacket bunched up around his arms, threatening to slide off and send him plummeting. Sam desperately wrapped his arms around his chest, trying to keep the jacket from slipping.  
  
“Let us go!” he called, staring hopefully up at the human and trying to push through the shudders racing up his spine with those eyes on him. “We haven’t done anything to you!”  
  
If the muffled curses from under the mug wasn't proof enough of their impossibly high intelligence, the desperate plea of the one in his hand confirmed it. Sherlock’s frown deepened thoughtfully as he considered the chemistry involved in allowing that level of functionality to a brain mass that small.  
  
"Incredible," he remarked under his breath, a word he didn't throw around lightly. Then he considered his captive's words, glancing around the counter. He lowered the smaller man from his admittedly precarious position and placed him on his waiting palm, immediately pinning his middle under his thumb.   
  
With him secure and Sherlock's dominant hand free, he brushed his fingers against the paper packaging for the biscuits Mrs. Hudson had left for him and John earlier in the week. The smooth tear was hard to miss.  
  
"I rather think that pinched biscuit would beg to differ," he quipped, though none of the humor registered at all in his baritone rumble.  
  
“It was _one cookie!_ ” came Dean’s muffled shout of protest, his voice sounding completely offended. Sam heard another thump against the side of the coffee mug and winced, imagining how hard his brother was hitting the side, yet nothing showed on the outside. The mug didn’t move a centimeter from where it was dropped over Dean.  
  
When Sam turned back to the giant, he paled at the scrutiny he was under. He renewed his struggles against Sherlock’s grip, remembering all those times they’d looked out at the humans in the home and thought this would never happen to them. How wrong they were. Those warnings from the others in the area held more credence now that Sam was a witness to how easily the human had caught them.  
  
“We’ll give it back,” Sam said, putting a hand against Sherlock’s thumb and trying to push himself free. His chest ached under the constant pressure. “Please. We didn’t think you’d notice and we needed something to eat!” He wished his laceless boots could gain traction on the skin, and he tried to ignore how warm the ground under him was. A steady pulse thrummed through where his back was pinned. “You’re hurting me.”  
  
Sherlock blinked, unsure of which train of thought to focus on. So many points came to light in the last few seconds alone.  
  
For one thing, these tiny people were American, a fact made clear now that more words were exchanged. That begged the question of what they were doing on the wrong side of the pond. For another, they were concerned that Sherlock would confiscate their hard-earned food, which he honestly wouldn't have missed if he weren't already on their case. However, the breach in the packaging would have stirred suspicion eventually anyways, and this entire affair would have happened a little later.  
  
Really, this encounter was inevitable.  
  
Lastly, disregarding the angry sounds coming from under the mug, they were both reacting out of fear. It was certainly understandable given that his hand alone could overwhelm one of them. Anybody, when confronted with such a drastic size difference, would react this way. Sherlock supposed that his cold demeanor wasn't helping matters either.  
  
Heeding Sam's plea, he eased up on the pressure from his thumb. It was the most bizarre sensation, to have a humanoid creature trapped in his hand, small limbs scrambling for purchase. If he was going to examine them-- which he fully intended to-- it wouldn't do at all if he hurt them accidentally, or if they hurt themselves. So Sherlock grabbed a tall beaker with a wide circumference, and carefully lowered Sam inside. Perhaps minimal contact with his hands and a strong glass barrier between them would help calm his little heart.  
  
Sam tried to escape before being dropped in the beaker, but he couldn’t free his knife in time. He landed at the bottom, his chest heaving as he breathed out. He surreptitiously rubbed at his chest, wincing at how sore it was. It would be dumb luck if he didn’t have any bruised ribs. He knew from unfortunate previous experience just how easy it was for a human to put too much pressure on him. As it was, he would likely have spectacular bruising.  
  
He glanced up at the tall edges. In another life, he’d never be able to climb the sheer cliff the beaker formed. Here and now, Sam actually thought he might be able to catch his hook on the top and scale his way out. He brushed his hand against the hook where one barb hung out of his bag, reassuring himself it was there before shoving it out of sight so there was no risk of the human confiscating it. An attempt at climbing out would have to wait.   
  
He glanced through the warped glass and froze when he saw Dean’s predicament.  
  
Sherlock picked out a mason jar from the collection on the counter in advance, and placed it and Sam's beaker back on the surface. _Now for the other._   
  
Without a word, he took hold of the mug and began to slide it slowly towards himself, ignoring any and all protests. He remained confident that his actions were in everyone's best interests and for the smaller man's safety.  
  
“Leave him alone!” Sam shouted, slamming a fist against the wall as he saw the mug Dean was under pushed helplessly along.  
  
Inside the mug, Dean tried to fight back against the inexorable progress of the mug. He tried everything; propping his back against the wall and shoving backwards, bracing two hands against the wall and trying to walk the other way, his heels digging into the ground. He stumbled, tripping over the biscuit that came with him, and then the bottom tilted up enough for him to tumble out.  
  
And land in a hand.  
  
Dean’s landing in Sherlock’s palm was disorienting enough by itself, but then the other cupped over him and both started to _move_. Dean instinctively clung to a finger next to him, his eyes squinting closed as he saw the faraway ground between the fingers. “What the hell?!” he asked, his voice climbing in pitch at how _high_ he was with no control over his fate. “What part of personal space do you not understand?”  
  
Sherlock had every intention of letting the tiny pair keep the food they’d evidently made an honest effort to procure. Given the circumstances, he doubted they would believe him if he assured them of that. For now, he decided to leave the food alone as he moved Dean over the jar.  
  
The second the hand stopped moving, Dean blinked his eyes open and saw what was waiting for him. His heart leapt into his throat and desperation propelled him forward despite the heights. He shoved himself at a crack in the fingers, yanking his knife from his jacket in one smooth motion and slashing at the closest finger to where he was.  
  
Right before he leapt at the open air.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sam and Dean got overconfident, and Sherlock got his hands on the bros! Nothing good can come of this XD Especially with the way Dean is always eager to draw blood. He's got a pretty consistent way of dealing with grabby giants: Wait for an opening, slash, jump. Maybe this time it'll work out for him like it didn't work out so well in The Road Not Taken.
> 
> Next: March 15th 2017 at 9pm
> 
> Comments and kudos are love! <3


	3. A Study in Small

The corner of Sherlock's lip twitched upward to hear the little man snapping about personal space, and a comment about who exactly was clinging to whose finger was on the tip of his tongue. Before he could voice it, Dean lashed out, stinging Sherlock's index finger with the tiniest of knives to make a desperate leap.  
  
"Ah!" Sherlock gasped as his injured hand reacted viscerally, retreating toward the larger man's core with his thumb pressed against the small cut. His dominant hand was still free, and it swooped down to catch Dean before he could land on the counter and either harm himself or get away. This time Sherlock curled his fingers around the tiny body, careful to keep a harmless yet sturdy grip.  
  
He glanced between his occupied fist and the tiny slash across his finger, on some level impressed with the bravery it must take to fight back when Dean was clearly outmatched. Sherlock felt slow for not assuming they would be armed, because of _course_ they would. The entire world posed a threat when one was four inches tall.  
  
"You're certainly a crafty little thing," muttered Sherlock, shifting his grip to free Dean's arms. He managed to pinch two fingers around the knife, giving it a measured tug. It wouldn't do to break the man's possession, or his arm for that matter; that would be simply cruel. Even so, the knife had to go in order for anything productive to get done.  
  
Dean fought back with everything he had. He grit his teeth, his face full of determination as he refused to relinquish his hold on his knife. His boots dug into Sherlock’s skin as he braced himself for tug-of-war with a giant.  
  
The silver knives were _everything_ to the brothers. One of their _very_ few personal possessions left from their previous lives, the knives were the only real defense they had in a world that was too big for them. Dean’s amulet was the only other item that was cursed with them, and he never took it off his neck, afraid it would fall into a crack where he couldn’t reach it, no matter that his knack would tell him right where it was.  
  
“Who asked you, tiny?” Dean snipped in annoyance, grunting at the effort required to just keep his blade in place. He didn’t want to risk breaking the hilt from the blade, but he sure as _hell_ didn’t want to let some _human_ take it. He’d never see it again.  
  
Sherlock rolled his eyes. "Very mature."  
  
Brow pinching in concentration, the detective shifted the angle of his grip and added enough torque to slip the hilt out of the tiny hand. Before he even thought to worry about the damage that might have done to the fragile wrist, Sherlock moved Dean further away and dropped him into the prepared jar, releasing his grip as low as the glass would allow. The tiny man dropped to the bottom, catching himself in a squat and glaring up at his captor.  
  
That done, Sherlock carefully placed the miniscule blade onto his freed palm. It was so small he had to squint to see any kind of detail in it, until he remembered the pocket magnifier he always kept on his person. He fished the little instrument out of his pocket and used his teeth to slide it open. The newly-uncovered lens offered a much better, if slightly distorted view of the miniscule weapon.  
  
"Excellent workmanship," he murmured, taking note of how impossibly _fine_ it was. Sherlock was making an honest effort to not underestimate these miniature men, but a silver knife of that caliber seemed well outside the resources of someone shorter than a finger.  
  
Putting the magnifier away, Sherlock let the knife slide from his palm to the counter, a good deal away from the edge where it could get accidentally brushed away.  
  
Sherlock's questions were ever mounting, and as he leaned down to scrutinize each of them in turn, he pondered over where to begin.  
  
Dean stalked from side to side in his jar, every ounce of his small body just bleeding frustration. He didn’t take his eyes from Sherlock the entire time, resembling a cornered wolf more than a man with the matching snarl on his face.  
  
Sam, on the other hand, had slumped against the glass wall behind him, staring up at the giant that had them trapped. He still had all his supplies and his knife, but so long as they were under such close scrutiny, none of it would do them any good. It was heartening to see Dean had escaped any damage, and still had his duffel slung over his shoulders, but that was the only good news. Any attempt at escape would be simple to counteract by just placing something over the top of their jars.  
  
And they had no way to stop it.  
  
Sam drew his knees close, remembering their time imprisoned as children. In a cage, with no way to stop the people from stuffing them into a suitcase and shipping them across the seas. The stifling heat in the bag came back to Sam, making his breathing quicken. He was trapped. He was _trapped._  
  
Dean punched the glass as he reached the side again, glaring up at Sherlock. “Alright, you’ve caught us!” he said angrily. The scrutiny made every second of their imprisonment draw out into a lifetime, made worse by the fact that Sam was _so close,_ but Dean couldn’t help him. They might as well be on separate planets. “What the hell do you want from us?”  
  
Sherlock's frown deepened at the demand. Unlike his more subdued counterpart, this one had angry energy to spare. It hardly seemed healthy, but Sherlock supposed he would be the last to know.  
  
"Simply put, I want answers," he stated evenly, kneeling down to peer at them from a more level angle. "Do you not realize how _impossible_ you two are? Considering your brain masses, you should only be able to function at the level of a rodent. Yet here you stand, fully sentient and as emotional as any human being."  
  
A glance in Sam's direction was proof enough of that. Unlike Dean, he had curled into a miserable ball in the back of his container. Sherlock gave a sigh, running his hands through his dark curls before refocusing on Dean. "I can accept that you do exist, I can't exactly deny it at this point. But for starters, I need to know where you come from, since you're clearly not locals, whatever you are."  
  
Dean bristled even more, irked by the insinuations that they should be closer to rats or mice. “The last time I _checked,_ ” he bit out in a tense voice, “we don’t _owe_ you any answers!” He stared defiantly up at Sherlock, then started up his pacing again. He had too much bottled up adrenaline in him to stand still for too long without his arms starting to shake. The sheer amount of helplessness in him burned at his pride.  
  
He clenched his fists, feeling a slight strain in his knife-wielding wrist. He needed that knife back. With it, he could fight. He cast a quick glance over where it was sitting on the counter, looking out of place and so _small_. They almost never left their knives out, unless they were in the small corner in the walls they’d portioned out for themselves, crafting a home out of the bits and pieces they could find and drag there.  
  
Sam didn’t look up, and Dean could see a familiar tension in his younger brother. His shoulders were bunched up and one of Sam’s hands tightened into a fist. It was a long time since they’d been caught, but the memories were as fresh as if they’d happened the day before.  
  
Dean pointed stubbornly up at Sherlock. “The next time I stick _you_ in a jar, you can ask the questions!”  
  
Sherlock let out a long breath, running a hand down his face. Rather than dignify any of that with a response, he rose to his full height and dragged over a chair from the nearby table, sitting backwards in it.  
  
"Honestly, you two act as if you think I intend to keep you. Spoiler alert: I _don't_." He leaned his crossed arms over the back of the chair, his tone even and his expression neutral. "But the fact remains that you are a mystery that cannot go unsolved, and the longer you lean on your own stubbornness like the world's most unhealthy crutch, the longer you remain trapped. As it is, I alone hold control over your immediate freedom, so I suggest you either get talking or get comfortable--"  
  
A door opened and closed downstairs, and the faint rustling of a plastic grocery bag could be heard swaying in time to the footsteps ascending the stairs. Sherlock gave an exasperated groan. "I stand corrected," he mumbled through grit teeth.  
  
A moment later, the kitchen door that led to the landing swung open and John Watson entered. Sherlock waited until John froze at the scene he'd come home to, knowing how terrible it would look to him. The grocery bag dropping to the floor confirmed it.  
  
"John," Sherlock greeted, sparing a glance in his flatmate's direction. That split second was more than enough for Sherlock to register the confusion, utter shock and disbelief fighting for attention on the doctor's face as he stared.  
  
With a second human in the room, Dean backed himself against the far wall of the jar. He pulled out his hook, wielding it as a backup weapon and knowing it wouldn’t do much if he needed to defend himself. That didn’t matter; if he was going down, he was going down fighting. There was no way to know how _this_ human would react. The first one’s reaction was bad enough, and this second one was a _doctor,_ medically trained and equipped to dissect them.  
  
Sam could feel the weight of the gaze on him double in intensity as the second human came into the room, and he tried to make himself smaller, curling more and pulling his legs up to his chest. He put his hand on his own weapon, using the feeling of the hilt in his hand as an anchor. If they tried anything, he would defend himself. It didn’t matter if it was a useless attempt, it was better than waiting for them to find a better cage to keep him in.  
  
Dean jabbed his hook in Sherlock’s direction. “Just because we're trapped like rejects from _Land of the Giants_ doesn't mean we'll answer your questions like good little captives,” he growled, refusing to show any weakness in front of the new giant. “Now let my brother _go_.”  
  
John blinked hard, trying to force the hallucination out of his sight. It _had_ to be that, or Sherlock drugged his tea again… But no. One of the little figures spoke quite harshly to Sherlock. At the mention of a brother, John's eyes darted to the large beaker. He'd almost missed the other person entirely, curled as he was into a ball of stress and fear.  
  
"Oh God," he breathed. These were _people_. Much smaller than average, but people all the same.  
  
He walked numbly forward, a million questions flying around his head at once. The most pressing one stuck out just as he came to stand next to the seated detective.  
  
"Sherlock, what have you done?" he demanded, his attention split between his sociopathic friend and his captives.  
  
Sherlock exhaled sharply, giving John that _look_ he always gave when he thought the doctor wouldn't understand. "They were being uncooperative--"  
  
"And _you're_ being an arse!" John shot back, grabbing a fistful of Sherlock's dressing gown. Despite being shorter than the detective, John was strong enough to yank Sherlock to his feet and shove him out of the way. Other than an indignant glare, Sherlock offered no protest, but both of the small brothers flinched at the sight of such fast movements.  
  
Moving carefully now that he was face to face with two unbelievably tiny but undeniably terrified men, John turned the chair the right way around and sank into it, leaning forward to peer through the glass. "Are you hurt?" he asked gently. At least he knew they could understand him and communicate.  
  
Dean remained at the ready, his face distrustful as he stared up at the new human leaning in at them. John’s voice rumbled through the air much like Sherlock’s, but wasn’t as sharp or harsh. Dean caught sight of Sam out of the corner of his eye and the pain clouding Sam's expression. This close to humans and under this much scrutiny, Dean had no way of knowing if Sam was actually hurt or if it was caused by his knack, and that fact dug at him more every second.  
  
He needed to get back to Sam so he could check him, and while he was stuck in a jar, that wasn't happening.  
  
Dean scowled at the new giant. Though he appreciated the distance from Sherlock's cold demeanor, he had no intention of opening up to John. For all they knew, these two could be using the 'good cop, bad cop’ routine on them. The brothers had seen them act as a team plenty of times before while observing from the safety of the walls. “We're _fine,_ ” he said, his voice tightly wound. He continued to hold his hook defensively in front of his chest. “Just let us out of these jars and we'll go on our merry way. You'll never hear from us again.”  
  
"Forgive me if I don't take your word for it," John said to Dean with a glance at the quieter of the two. The look on his face told a different story than his brother’s words.  
  
It was hard to ignore how _young_ they both looked, especially Sam. He couldn't be much older than twenty, and to see him in such a state… John would have to intervene eventually, but for now he made one more attempt at earning their consent.  
  
"My name's John," he stated, speaking only to Sam. "I'm a doctor. And I'm afraid I can't let you out of my sight until I know for sure that neither of you needs medical attention. If you would let me examine you, then as long as you're alright I _will_ let you go on your way."  
  
“You’ll have to forgive _me,_ ” Dean said tartly, refusing to relent, “if I find that a little hard to believe while I’m stuck in a jar.” He shot a glare back at where Sherlock was standing behind his friend. “We were doing _fine_ before a certain someone decided to go all _King Kong_ on us and stuff us into jars!”  
  
“Dean…” came a quiet voice from close by, almost too quiet to escape from one jar and make it into the second.  
  
Dean looked at his little brother, the hard expression on his face softening at the sight of Sam curled into a ball. Sam was still trying his best to ignore John’s proximity. “Don’t worry, Sammy. I’ll take care of this,” Dean swore.  
  
Sam nodded, taking heart from how Dean didn’t waver in his stance. He leaned his head against the curved glass wall, staring straight up and trying to take his mind off the burning tingle he could feel on his neck.  
  
Dean rounded on John and Sherlock. Any compassion he had for Sam was washed away and the hard glint in his eyes returned. “Let us out, and _I’ll_ take care of Sam,” he countered with determination. “You might be a doctor, but he’s _too small._ You might hurt him more!” He huffed in aggravation. “This is some thanks we get for helpin’ you solve that case, ain’t it?”  
  
From where he'd settled leaning against the table, Sherlock perked up. "That _was_ you! Of course, I've been blind. That circle was too uneven, too--!"  
  
"Sherlock," John growled, cutting off the rapid-fire rant. "Not now."  
  
Sherlock blinked at the interruption, but John was on a mission and there was no arguing with him. So with a huff he sat back and crossed his arms, all but pouting.  
  
John considered Dean’s demand. The doctor trusted himself to avoid making Sam's potential injuries worse, but he had to admit that the kid's 100% safety was difficult to guarantee. In any case, he understood the deep-seated need Dean felt to take care of his younger brother.  
  
"If he needs medical aid, _please_ don't lie to me," John implored. That was his main concern, but he had no right to keep them apart for a moment longer. "I'm here to help."  
  
Turning to Sam, he placed a hand on the counter near his beaker, seeing him flinch back and meet his eyes at last. John took a steadying breath to continue in spite of the startled hazels staring back at him.  
  
"I'm gonna put the jar on its side now," he informed the little fellow, his bedside manner taking over. "I'll go slow so as not to exacerbate anything, but brace yourself." Only when he was certain Sam was prepared, the little guy scrambling to his feet with a pained grimace, did John begin tilting the glass container at a safe speed, holding his breath until the top touched the polished granite.  
  
Sam braced his arms against the walls as they tilted around him, paying close attention to the floor as it moved. The slick surface was difficult to keep his footing on, but he persevered. Freedom was close as the opening of the vial touched against the solid counter. There was a jarring thump that traveled through the glass, but Sam was already moving for the exit.  
  
Fresh air greeted him. _I'm out, I'm out…_ repeated like a mantra in his mind, some of the internal panic caused by his entrapment fading. Not all, but enough that he could focus on other things.  
  
_Out._  
  
Like the way his chest ached, and the burning on the back of his neck. _I'm out._  
  
First things first. Sam tried to ignore the giants looming over them in the room. John was at least treating them decently compared to Sherlock, and Sam distantly thought that most of the burning on his neck had to be coming from the detective and his unnerving stare. Sam rubbed distractedly at it, then wrapped his arm around his chest. He quickly darted over to Dean’s jar, his brother’s plight more important than anything else.  
  
[](http://sta.sh/01n7uzmlxdza)

[Chapter art by lamthetwickster!](https://lamthetwickster.tumblr.com/)

Dean tried to give Sam a grin through the glass. “See Sammy? Told ya I'd take care of it. No more cages for us.” He put a hand against the inside of the jar, and Sam instinctively placed his own against it. Even standing on the bottom of the glass jar, Dean was the shorter brother.  
  
“Not until you’re out here, too,” Sam said.  
  
John set the empty beaker far to the side while the brothers reunited as closely as they could with Dean still trapped. He wasted no time in wrapping his hand around Dean's jar, mindful to avoid Sam.  
  
"Here we go," he said for fair warning, making sure Sam wasn't too close to the moving jar. John was as careful with Dean as he was with Sam, but he felt comfortable speeding up a bit with the seemingly less-pained brother.  
  
Seeing Sam so mobile gave John hope that the lad really wasn't so bad off after all. It was still hard to tell if he was simply pushing through for the sake of his brother, so even though John backed off once Dean was free and his jar discarded, he kept a close eye on the pair.  
  
Unlike Sam, Dean practically hit the ground running to get out of the jar. The second it was flat, he ran out and straight to Sam, wrapping him in a protective hug while glaring all the while at Sherlock across the room.  
  
Of course, like that, Sam couldn’t hide the gasp as he tried to soldier through the pain, his ribs scolding him for the extra pressure.  
  
Dean pulled out of the hug. “He _did_ hurt you, didn’t he?” he demanded, holding Sam at arm’s length. Nothing Sam did could dissuade his older brother from insistently pushing up the grey tee he was wearing under his tan jacket.  
  
“It’s _just bruises,_ ” Sam hissed at Dean, trying to shove him away and cover his chest back up while his ears burned in embarrassment. The last thing he wanted to do was reveal an injury to a room full of humans that knew they were there.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Once again, what not to do with your Dean: 
> 
> 1\. Separate him from his little brother
> 
> 2\. Take away his knife
> 
> 3\. Tell him he's fine, he just needs to answer a few questions.
> 
> Sherlock strikes out. John swings a home run.
> 
>  **Next:** March 19 th 2017 at 9pm
> 
> Comments and kudos are love!


	4. Bedside Manner

John frowned at the interaction between the brothers, turning the look into a scowl as he aimed it at Sherlock as soon as the mention of _bruises_ came up.  
  
"What happened?" he pressed.  
  
"I suspected them of getting involved during key points of certain cases, not knowing what exactly to expect, of course--"  
  
" _No_ ," John interjected before Sherlock could begin defending his actions. "None of that. What _physically_ happened between you three?"  
  
With a resigned sigh and a vaguely abashed glance at the brothers, Sherlock explained exactly what had transpired between Sam, Dean, and himself in excruciating detail. Right down to the amount of pressure he'd applied to Sam with his thumb to the _centigram_.  
  
John gaped at him. "The hell is wrong with you? He's a kid!"  
  
"He would have run away!" Sherlock insisted. "Or attacked me with that knife hidden in his jacket."  
  
John looked back at the brothers, expressing apology to both of them, Sam especially. "Apparently with good reason," he remarked.  
  
Sam flushed, staring down at the ground under his boots. He knew what happened wasn’t _only_ Sherlock’s fault. They’d played their own part in matters by daring to go after something so open and exposed as the tea biscuits, a stunt Dean risked because he thought the human was asleep.  
  
“We were just trying to get food,” he tried to explain, Dean hovering close. “We didn’t think you’d miss one biscuit, and after helping with the case…” He trailed off and shook his head. “We were overconfident.”  
  
“We’ll remember that the next time we want to help,” Dean said grimly, though he was worried after hearing everything Sam had gone through while he was trapped under the coffee mug, and all in Sherlock’s cold manner of explaining things. Dangled in midair, pinned to a hand with a thumb that was close to their size… Dean couldn’t hold in his fretting.  
  
“You don’t think he hurt one of Sam’s bones, do ya?” he asked. He could do a lot for injuries, but there were resources humans could get that were denied to them. If Sam healed wrong, it could make survival hard… or impossible.  
  
John shot Sherlock a pointed look. The detective paused in his thoughtful chin-stroking and shrugged. "I didn't feel anything snap," he put in.  
  
Shaking his head wearily, John carefully regarded Sam. The lad certainly didn't seem like he was in the amount of pain one with broken ribs would be in, so that was encouraging. Whether or not they were bruised was another matter entirely.  
  
"Highly unlikely they're broken," John assured Dean. "But I may have to take a closer look to find out if they're bruised or not. Unless… Sam, have you ever bruised or broken a bone?"   
  
Relying on the kid's personal experience wasn't ideal, but John wanted to give the brothers every opportunity to help themselves before John needlessly put them through another ordeal with human hands.  
  
Sam paused, his innate shy nature rising up with the direct address from John. “I don’t… There was just that one time, when we were kids, but it healed fast enough.”  
  
Dean shook his head. “You only had a dislocated shoulder from those asshats,” he said darkly, the day vivid in his mind. Sam had only been ten, so he didn’t remember the details as clear as his older brother, washed away as they were by the pain he'd been in. “Once I popped it in we just had to deal with some swelling for a few weeks. We couldn’t exactly grab an ice pack to help with the pain.”  
  
John nodded, listening to every word. Despite how upsetting it was to hear about someone intentionally harming them at an even younger age, it _was_ useful information.  
  
"I'm afraid I'm going to need to see for myself if we want to be sure," he reaffirmed. It was necessary, but he wasn't about to force his help on them when they'd already been bullied enough. For a lifetime, it seemed.  
  
Sam drew nervously back, his eyes flashing between Dean and John. He brought up his arm to hold his chest protectively again.  
  
“No one’ll force you, Sammy,” Dean said gently, giving _both_ of the giants in the room a _look_. A look that said he would brook no arguments about the subject.  
  
Sam met John’s eyes, heartened by his steady, calming manner, the complete opposite of Sherlock’s. “What’ll you have to do?” he asked, memories of being pinned to a palm forcing their way to the front of his mind. “Will it hurt?”  
  
Relief swept over John as Sam timidly accepted his help. "Mainly, I'll be going by look. Check on swelling, see if any bruises have formed already and how dark they are. Actually, with Dean here, I won't really have to touch you at all. I can just tell him what to look for. By the end, you won't be in any more pain than you already have.  
  
"Of course, I'll need to _see_ the injury, so if you wouldn't mind taking off your bag, jacket, shirt…" John trailed off when he felt Sherlock leaning over his shoulder for a closer look himself. Out of Sam and Dean's sight John's fist clenched and unclenched irritably, the urge to punch his flatmate in the face rising up once again.  
  
"Sherlock…" _Piss off_ was on the tip of his tongue, but that would be just as effective as if he'd said it to a brick wall. "Go, fetch the first-aid kit, okay?"  
  
The dark-haired human frowned. "What for?"  
  
"Just _go_."  
  
Even Sherlock could take a hint every now and then. Once he'd skulked off to take his time retrieving what John had asked for, John let out a long breath. "Sorry about him," he said, a long-overdue apology.  
  
“He’s a real _peach,_ ” Dean said sharply. He wasn’t quite recovered from hearing about the events during his entrapment under the coffee mug and all the blame for that rested solely on Sherlock.  
  
Sam was more important though, so Dean turned his back on John for the first time. “You sure about this?” he asked Sam intently, lowering his voice in the hopes that John wouldn’t hear their quick conversation. “You heard him, he doesn’t think you have any broken bones. We can just get back in the walls if you don’t want to go through with it.”  
  
Sam shook his head slowly. “Nooo…” he said, drawing out the word. “If he can really help, we might as well get it over with instead of waiting until it’s too late.”   
  
Stepping back, Sam let his satchel fall to the ground with a wince. It slumped to the side, the hook likely tangled with all the extra sheafs of paper he’d squirreled away over time. Tucked into a corner of a bag was a broken piece of pencil lead, tracked down for him by Dean for his birthday so he could actually _use_ the pages he’d collected.  
  
Taking a deep breath to steel himself, Sam took his jacket off next, leaving it next to the satchel, followed swiftly by his grey t-shirt. The air in the flat was cool against his bare skin, and he kept his arms close to his sides as goosebumps prickled his skin. He looked up at John with lingering trepidation, feeling more vulnerable than before.   
  
John scooted the chair back from the counter so he could lean forward without looming over Sam and Dean. He wasn't much closer to them than before, but eye level gave a more intimate feel than his normal seated position.   
  
"Doesn't look too nasty just yet," he thought aloud for Sam's benefit, keeping his voice low. John made an effort to concentrate on Sam's ribs alone, and not dwell on how malnourished he seemed. He was much too skinny for his body type, and it could only be assumed that Dean wasn't much better under all those layers, but that was a conversation for another time.  
  
"Dean, I'm gonna need you to run your hands over Sam's ribs, light as you can," John instructed evenly. "A little swelling isn't too worrisome, but if there are any bumps or dents, give a shout. That's definitely a sign of broken ribs, and will need immediate treatment. Watch out for anything that feels like a crack as well. Can't be too careful."  
  
John rested his chin on his knuckles as he watched them, focusing on their movements. "Sam, does it hurt to take a deep breath?"  
  
Sam followed through with what he was told, taking deep breaths like he was at the doctor’s. Dean did as instructed as well, lightly touching Sam’s bruised skin. He worried about pressing too hard, trying to avoid exacerbating Sam’s condition.  
  
“No pain,” Sam confirmed, watching Dean’s hands carefully trail over his ribs. “And the burning’s gone now.” This comment was directed at Dean, letting him know John really _did_ want to help them. There was no danger in the sense Sam had.  
  
Dean glanced up, recognizing what Sam meant. “Sherlock?”  
  
Sam shrugged helplessly. “Guess it’s not the same with everyone that sees me. It’s not his fault.”  
  
Dean was quiet while he finished the other side of Sam’s chest, intent on his work. He straightened and nodded. “I don’t feel any cracks,” he told John.  
  
"That's great." Satisfied, John sat back in the chair, appraising the unique pair.  
  
"You'll be fine, Sam. No bruised ribs," he announced with his fingers laced in his lap. "How you proceed from here on is really up to you. You could take it easy for a week or so, ease yourself into a more regular rhythm at your own pace. If you like, I could put together an ice pack for you, that'd help bring down any swelling and numb the ache. I could also send you off with painkillers, as long as you've got a decent water supply to help wash it down. I'd suggest something solid in the stomach beforehand. Oh! And, keep the biscuit! In fact, have as many as you like. You've more than earned it."  
  
He closed with a friendly, still slightly bewildered grin, reaching across the counter to slide the package of biscuits within their reach in case they took him up on that last offer. Both brothers froze up, but managed the willpower not to flinch back. That done, John backed off again and waited for their response.  
  
Dean watched carefully. He trusted Sam’s assessment that the man meant no harm, and humans didn’t seem to think about how _big_ they might come across. Of course, neither had Dean, back before their curse hit. No matter the warnings they'd heard about doctors in general and this flat in particular, things were going better than he'd dared to dream.  
  
“Ah… thanks!” Sam blurted, not sure how else to answer the solid stream of words and kind gestures. He stepped back, picking up his shirt to cover himself back up. He didn’t want to stand there bare chested any longer than necessary, and pulled it on hastily to hide the bruises again.  
  
“Ice, yes,” Dean answered for the pair, “painkillers no. We don’t know how they’ll react in our systems since we’re… y’know, and we don’t have a way to measure out a proper dosage. Unless it’s life or death, we try not to use any pills.” He knew better than to rule them out completely, since there was always the chance that one day their lives _would_ rely on a pill-- or rather, the crushed-up version of a pill since what humans took looked more like it belonged on an episode of _Futurama_ with the professor announcing to the world _Good news everyone! It’s a suppository._  
  
And that was the _smaller_ pills.  
  
“Thank you,” Sam said warmly, wanting to get that out of the way before it slipped his mind. “For everything.”  
  
John's smile widened. "You're welcome!" Then he nodded in acknowledgement of Dean's decision and made a move to get up.  
  
"Right, I'll get on that ice pack, then. Just, y'know, if you find you have need of meds, don't hesitate to ask. I'm sure we can figure out an appropriate dosage."  
  
That said, he stood and headed straight for the refrigerator. His heart fluttered with every glance back at the brothers. Viewing them from his normal height felt _wrong_ somehow, and he was certain he wouldn't get used to it. He'd almost forgotten how small Sam and Dean actually were.  
  
 _That just happened,_ he thought, exhaling sharply and pressing his forehead to the cool door of the fridge for some sort of stability.  
  
 _This is_ still _happening,_ he reminded himself, and proceeded to open the fridge and dig around for the ice cube tray.  
  
Just as he found a paper towel to wrap around the ice cube he'd cut to size with a steak knife, Sherlock stalked across the living room, peeking into the kitchen.   
  
"Oh good, you’ve finished," he deadpanned, tossing the useless first-aid kit across the room. It landed on the couch with a thump.  
  
"Behave, Sherlock," John warned, setting the bundle of ice and paper within Sam's reach. He rolled his eyes as Sherlock childishly mimicked him and jumped up to sit cross-legged on the table. Then John raised an eyebrow when he noticed something. "What happened to your finger?"  
  
Sherlock flared the fingers of his left hand as his palm rested on his knee. The index finger now sported a light blue adhesive bandage between the second and third joints.  
  
"I _misbehaved_ and he had a knife," stated Sherlock with a glance at Dean.  
  
John didn't even try to hold back a chuckle, mostly at how much of a drama queen Sherlock was being over the whole affair. "Ah, good on you, mate," he commended Dean. "If it wouldn't do so much damage, I'd have stabbed him ages ago."  
  
“If he tries grabbing like that again, I’ll make sure it does _more_ damage,” Dean said warningly, any sign of his briefly relaxed demeanor gone with Sherlock back in sight. He was tense and ready to move if Sherlock showed any sign of reverting to the way he’d been before John returned. If he had fur like a cat instead of his leather jacket, he’d be bristled.  
  
Reminded of the knife Sherlock had taken, Dean stalked over to where it was abandoned on the counter, leaving Sam to gather up the ice and tuck it against his chest while he waited. His eyes were wide and he stared back at Sherlock, glad John was still around and starting to think it was time to go back into the walls. They’d overstayed their welcome. Humans weren’t supposed to _know_ they were around.  
  
Only a faint sheen of blood could be seen on the blade as Dean picked it up, most of it wiped clean from Sherlock tearing it out of his hands. Dean grimaced, wiping what he could onto his black t-shirt before leveling the silver blade at Sherlock. “Remember that. You grab, I stab.”  
  
Sherlock smirked, knowing full well that the threat was not empty. "Noted," he replied as he tapped a finger to his temple. "Lesson learnt."   
  
"And anyway, he _won't_ be grabbing you anymore," John asserted before Sherlock could ruin the delicate balance he’d managed to achieve. Already, Dean looked so wound-up that John was afraid the little guy would jump two feet if someone so much as _looked_ at him wrong. "Because we don't do that to people, do we Sherlock?"  
  
The detective inhaled deeply. "Mm, nah I think I've had my fill of that for a while."  
  
"And that is as close as we're gonna get to an apology." Shaking his head, John knelt by the counter to be level with the brothers again. "How's that ice pack treating you, Sam?"  
  
“Better,” Sam said, offering John a hesitant smile in return for his friendliness. It was a balm after Sherlock’s intensity, which he could once again feel focused down on them even if he wasn’t hovering overhead. “We normally can’t get ice at--”  
  
“We should go,” Dean said, interrupting Sam’s sentence. They shared a brief look as Dean walked back over, his casual saunter obvious now that he wasn’t running for his life. Dean didn’t want to give the two humans any more information about their lives and where they lived than they already knew. He was even contemplating closing up the entrance on the counter they used to get to the food, knowing it could be turned against them if Sherlock got it in his head to set any traps for them. They were small, and John wouldn’t always be around.  
  
As today demonstrated.  
  
Sam seemed to accept his implied scolding, falling silent. His eyes fell on the biscuits that John had pushed over, and he knelt down to slip one from the opening Dean had cut in the packaging. Dean glanced over at the biscuit he’d snitched before they were caught, and discarded it from thought. The rough handling from him dropping it and tripping over it had left a good corner of it in crumbs, so he took a second from the package.  
  
“Two cookies is more than enough,” he said, stepping quickly back as though the humans might snatch at them for their audacity. He snagged Sam’s satchel and jacket, slinging them over his shoulder to carry while Sam had the ice to hold.  
  
John blinked at their sudden declaration of departure, but he nodded in understanding. He still had questions, hundreds of them. No doubt Sherlock had thousands, but they'd been put through enough for one evening.  
  
"Right. Yeah, of course. Erm. Take care, rest up. We'll just get out of your way."  
  
Sherlock scoffed. "I must say, your jokes are improving. Maybe your blog will finally garner some attention."  
  
"Not a joke," John emphasized through grit teeth and a thin smile. "We're going. Now."  
  
It was Sherlock's turn to be offended, mostly by his own intuition betraying him when it came to his flatmate. "John, you can't be serious--"  
  
"Oh for God's sake, _shift!_ " John snapped, shooting to his feet and pointing an unyielding finger toward the living room. Out of his line of sight, the brothers flinched from the sharp tone and quick movements, reminded of how overpowering even the calmer of the two could be.  
  
Sherlock rolled his eyes and threw up his hands in mock surrender, sliding reluctantly off the table. He hesitated before reaching over and plucking the abandoned biscuit from the counter. He shrugged at the annoyed look John gave him. With half of the biscuit sticking out of his mouth, he gave the 'wings' of his dressing gown a sharp toss before disappearing around the corner and flopping on the couch once again.  
  
John started to follow him, but after two steps a thought struck him. He whirled around, shoving his hands into his pockets.  
  
"I know it doesn't show, but… For what it's worth, everything you did with the case, we really do appreciate it." He cleared his throat and added, "And, if you find that things get worse with the ribs or you need food, please don't let _this_ put you off from coming back. It's the least we can do to make up for, well, everything."  
  
“We wanted to help people,” Sam said. “Even though most of them don’t really look at us like people ourselves.”  
  
“Thanks for the assist, doc,” Dean said. “Hopefully you _won’t_ see us around again.”  
  
John nodded resolutely when it was clear he was no longer wanted, and he turned his back on the brothers and left them alone. A part of him hoped he and Sherlock hadn't scared them badly enough for them to move on, facing an unforgiving world that was too big for them. A smaller part wished they _had_ if living near the Consulting Detective and his doctor proved to be more dangerous than the alternative.  
  
The brothers waited for John to leave, finding themselves on their own in the kitchen. Sam’s shoulders slumped. For the first time since their capture, no one was looking at him. The sudden absence of feeling from the back of his neck almost felt cold.  
  
Sam was about to start his way back to their entrance when he paused, seeing Dean go back over to the biscuits. “Dean?”  
  
Dean shrugged. “One more cookie won’t hurt,” he assured Sam as he removed another, trying to juggle all the different items in his arms. “We might not get another chance, since they know we’re here.”  
  
Weighed down by two biscuits, Sam’s jacket and satchel and his own duffel bag, Dean lead the way back to the side of the kitchen. The crack in the bricks was just big enough for them to squirm their way back into the walls with their burdens, and Dean was glad the humans didn’t know where it was. It was one of the best places for them to slip out and get food, and he cringed at the thought of being out of the walls _longer_ if they had to close it up.  
  
Sam struggled with his own burden, holding the melting ice close to his chest and propping the last biscuit on his arm. Luckily, their home was very close, placed between the kitchen wall and the fireplace, nestled next to the bookcase by John's armchair. It was warm in the winter, heated by the fire that blazed, and far enough away that they didn’t need to worry about the fumes.  
  
It was sobering to consider that after being found like that, they should move on and find another home to live in. It was too dangerous to stay.  
  
They arrived back in silence, ears perked to listen to what John and Sherlock were doing in the main room. It was their normal ritual. Keep quiet or you’ll be found. Keep quiet or you’ll end up stuffed in a cage. The regular murmur of an exchange between the two giants made it into the walls, letting them know that things were starting to go back to normal.  
  
Dean was inordinately glad that even if they’d spent time in the beakers and jars, they _hadn’t_ been fully imprisoned. Something like that was hard to get over, and Sam carried scars from their time as pets. Treated as less-than-human things, much like the monsters their dad fought.  
  
Sam slumped down into the nest of fabric that made up his bed the moment he arrived, letting out a huge sigh.  
  
“Make sure to keep the ice on that chest,” Dean chided when he saw Sam’s grip slacken. “Once the ice is gone, it’s gone. There ain’t any more.” He kept his voice down. After everything else that happened that day they couldn’t take the risk that Sherlock would realize there were voices coming from one of his bookshelves. They’d _really_ have no choice but to leave at that point.  
  
“Right,” Sam mumbled. He hugged the ice to his chest, the grey of his t-shirt already stained with darkness from the melting ice.  
  
Dean watched him for a moment until he was sure Sam had drifted into sleep. Safe. His little brother was safe now. Away from huge hands that dangled him high over the ground and pinned him down like a bug to examine. He didn’t know what the future held for them, but at least they could face it together, like they always did.  
  
Letting out a rattling sigh, Dean collapsed into his own nest, made of fabric discards collected from throughout the building. The future was a lot more muddled for them than it had been that morning. He wouldn’t admit it to Sam, but he didn’t know what they were supposed to do.  
  
They were alone with this uncertainty.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> John got through his entire first encounter with the tiny Winchesters and never laid a finger on either smol... that's some kind of record in these AUs.  
> By contrast Sherlock took five seconds to grab them.
> 
> **Next:** March 22 nd 2017 at 9pm
> 
> Comments and kudos are love!


	5. One Small Step

John rounded the corner into the main room, flopping into the spare chair against the wall as his thoughts spun.  
  
"They were _American_ ," he breathed, gobsmacked.  
  
"Yup," Sherlock agreed. He was lying flat on his back on the couch once again, fingertips pressed thoughtfully together.  
  
John's amazed expression twisted into a scowl at Sherlock's nonchalance. "They were people, and you shut them up in bloody _jars!_ " He leaned forward in his chair to give Sherlock's dark curls a hearty smack.  
  
The detective flinched and clutched the back of his head, sitting up to stare at John, flummoxed. "It all worked out, didn't it?"  
  
" 'Worked out--' You call _that_ working out??" John hissed, careful not to shout now that he knew much smaller ears could be listening.  
  
"Now we know who's been assisting with our most difficult cases," insisted Sherlock, lowering his voice to match John.  
  
John nodded. "Yeah, we definitely know that. Turns out it was a couple of kids who you just scared half to death over a damn biscuit--!"  
  
"It wasn't about the biscuit--!"  
  
" _Jesus…_ ," John pinched the bridge of his nose and sighed heavily. "I'm too tired to argue with you. I'm going to bed."  
  
"Excellent. Good night," Sherlock dropped back down to the couch, getting as comfortable as a six-foot man could on that couch.  
  
John quickly kicked him off, asserting that _he_ would take the couch so he could ensure that Sherlock wouldn't try anything else that night. While John got himself comfortable, he noticed Sherlock edging toward the kitchen in the corner of his eye.  
  
"Hey…" he warned.   
  
Sherlock threw his hands up dramatically, then gestured to the abandoned grocery bag on the floor.  
  
"I'm putting. Away. The groceries," he pronounced, evidently offended by the lack of trust shown by his partner.  
  
John conceded and settled down in his makeshift bed for the night. He kept an ear out while Sherlock worked in the kitchen, knowing exactly where the things he purchased were supposed to go so he'd be able to tell if the detective wandered. When he was certain that Sherlock was in bed, John finally allowed himself to sleep.  
  
It had been over a year, but the ex-soldier still prided himself on his light slumber.  
  


* * *

  
The next day dawned, and by unspoken agreement, the brothers did not leave their home to snitch food from the kitchen. They only talked in a hush, on edge from the previous day’s events. The closest they came to venturing out during the morning was a quick trip to the shelf of books they lived next to. Their front door let out behind the tomes, cleverly disguised so it would go unnoticed if anyone grabbed a book from the shelf. Dean peered through the small openings between each book, checking from time to time to see what the two humans were up to.  
  
He wasn't sure what was keeping him from packing up and bundling Sam out of the flat. Maybe it was the fact that Sam really could use some rest. Or something in Dean thought it would be more dangerous to take his injured brother out into the world with no real idea where they could find safety and sanctuary. Even back when they'd first moved here, they'd had help getting there from the family that helped raise them and adopted them after their escape from their 'owners.' Dean's lip curled at the memory.  
  
They kept in contact with their adopted family, and through them knew of others that lived in the city and had met some passerby, on their way to different destinations. It was distant knowledge, nothing that could help them in their present circumstance. Something in Dean didn't want to go back to the others, begging for their help.  
  
He and Sam could figure things out. They'd gotten this far and survived.  
  
"Dude!" Sam protested, trying to stand up from his nest.  
  
Dean pushed Sam's shoulder, making him sit back down. " _No,_ " he said sternly. "You need to _rest_. We've got enough food to last."  
  
Sam glanced over at the biscuits piled up by their back entrance, the one that lead to the kitchen. They stood there like a leftover pile of bricks, a few crumbs scattered around on the cloth Dean had placed them on. It was a welcome change from their normal scraps, but Sam knew the taste would soon sour after they had them for breakfast, lunch and dinner.  
  
He sighed. After the disaster the night before, they should be thankful they even _had_ food.  
  
"What's the plan?" Sam asked, letting himself slump back down in his nest of cloth. Though the bruises on his chest looked worse now, darker and more poignant, he knew they were healing. Soon he wanted to get back to their normal activities, not so completely shut away from the human world.  
  
"First things first," Dean said gruffly, "We get you healthy. We'll figure out the rest then."  
  
Sam smiled, but it was forced. He could see right through Dean's bluster.  
  
They were both afraid.  
  
"Right," he responded quietly, turning on his side. "We'll figure it out."  
  
Maybe if they said it enough it would come true.  
  


* * *

  
Dean watched Sam drift off again, his brow pinched with concern. They didn't get sick or injured very often, and though he remembered taking care of their father when he'd get home from a hunt time and time again, Dean didn't have access to the same supplies as before. He couldn't even make Sam a damn _ice pack._  
  
That was the thought that set him on his next course of action, and he snagged his duffel on his way out of the room, only pausing to make sure the hook and black thread were inside.  
  
"This is friggin' stupid," he scolded himself, but Sam was in pain and John had promised to help them.  
  
What else was he to do?  
  


* * *

  
Clients continued to file in the next day, and Sherlock dismissed all of them. After things quieted down for the evening, John confronted Sherlock while the kettle boiled in preparation for tea.  
  
"What are you playing at?" he demanded just as Sherlock stooped to pick up his violin. It was always propped against the detective's designated armchair, just as often as John's laptop lay in the seat of his. "You can't tell me that none of those cases were worth your time. We're lucky to receive _half_ that number in a week."  
  
"Boring," Sherlock answered simply, digging through a pile of discarded newspapers for the bow of his instrument.  
  
John slumped into his chair, bordering on defeat. "Explain to me how you found _every single one_ of those cases boring."  
  
"Explain to _me_ ," shot back the detective, standing up straight, "how anything could be interesting after what we discovered."  
  
In the moment of hesitation in which John was hard-pressed for a good answer for that, Sherlock stormed off into his bedroom where he could play his violin and think in peace. John sighed heavily and pulled out his phone, the end of his rope reached.   
  
_Get him out of the house, I'm BEGGING you._   
  
Five minutes after John sent that text to Lestrade, Sherlock shot out of his room fully dressed, rambling about a corpse that had been mysteriously replaced in the dead of night. Before John could even consider tagging along, the detective was out of the house and on the street calling for a taxi. John grinned, content in the silence of the flat.  
  
If there was one thing Sherlock Holmes loved, it was making Scotland Yard look like idiots.  
  
An hour later, John was still alone, typing up responses to questions on his blog. He perked up when he thought he saw movement in the corner of his eye, and before he thought better of it, he glanced around.  
  
"Hello?" He regretted speaking up as soon as he did it. Whether it was Sam or Dean or something else entirely or nothing at all, the last thing he wanted to do was seem overeager.  
  
There was a long moment of silence, pregnant with expectation. Then, a shadow detached from the darkness that lurked behind the books on the shelf next to John. Dean hesitantly stepped into view, his leather jacket and jeans just so out of place on a man that stood under four inches in height.  
  
His original intention of asking for ice for Sam was derailed by how _fast_ John had picked up on his presence, and now he was more worried about how perceptive the two humans living there were. It was seeming more and more like the brothers were _lucky_ they’d gone so long unnoticed.  
  
“How’d you know I was there?” Dean asked, his voice restrained. He was starting to think that leaving might be more prudent, if the humans could track them down so fast. “Did you hear me?”  
  
John chuckled awkwardly, feeling heat rise up his neck in embarrassment. "I, ah, thought I saw something," he explained. "When you live with Sherlock Holmes, you kind of pick up a few things when it comes to observation."  
  
He glanced in Dean's direction, continually amazed by the small man's mere existence. He hoped that the absence of his younger brother was a sign that the lad was getting the rest he needed.   
  
"Sorry if I startled you." He closed his laptop and set it at his feet, then sat carefully back and regarded Dean with thinly veiled concern.  
  
Dean bristled at the implication. “You didn't _startle_ me!” he protested. He stepped out into the light, up to the edge of the shelf as though to prove he wasn't intimidated by the human watching him from so close by.  
  
With John’s hands empty, Dean knew the human was free to grab at the smaller man, yet he wasn’t afraid of being snatched up. John had plenty of chances to get them into his hands when he liberated them from the jars, yet he hadn't even insisted on being the one to check Sam's ribs, letting Dean take over. That earned a little trust in return.  
  
“I just need to make sure my skills are sharp,” Dean explained. “It's hard enough getting around here already, if I'm slacking off, we'll _never_ get supplies. I can't always count on Sam to be lookout.” He held his hands apart as though to say _What can you do?_  
  
"Right, yeah, of course," John nodded in agreement, as was his automatic response to insistent justification. He got much more extreme answers from Sherlock all the time, and he responded to each one the same way.  
  
"So, er." The doctor cleared his throat and turned in his chair to face a little more toward Dean. He couldn't keep his worries for Dean’s younger brother to himself anymore.  "How is Sam? Is he resting?"  
  
Since Sam was the entire reason Dean was out in the open talking to a friggin’ _giant,_ he couldn’t say he was overly surprised John was asking. Their need for the ice wasn’t the most pressing, but Dean desperately wanted to ease Sam’s pain.  
  
“He’s resting,” Dean confirmed, crossing his arms over his chest. “He wanted to go out, but I made him stay back at our place.” Hopefully John didn’t pick up on the fact that _back at our place_ was only half a foot away, if that. He knew that Sam could sleep through the human’s voice, after years of being around constant background noise.  
  
“Look, Sam doesn’t know I’m out here,” Dean said, starting on his request with a hopeful look. “I was wondering if you could get us some more ice. He’s had a hard time sleeping. He normally lies on his chest, as sprawled out as he can get.”  
  
John blinked, honestly a little surprised by the mention of secrecy between the brothers, considering how close they'd seemed the other day. But he supposed that as long as it was all for Sam's long-term benefit, it wasn't his place to pry.  
  
"Absolutely. I'll go and fetch that right now, just a minute." With that, John stood and wasted no time making his way over to the freezer. He'd stashed the remnants of the ice cube he'd quartered last time in the empty space left in the mold. Moving the kettle off the heat just as it started whistling and turning off the stove, John dug out another small piece and quickly transferred it to the paper towels, wrapping it in two layers of torn corners.  
  
"I'm afraid I can't give you more than one at a time," he informed Dean on his way back to the shelf. "They'd melt at the same rate, and then you'd just have a mess on your hands." John offered an amiable smile as he carefully placed the ever-dampening bundle near Dean and settled back into his armchair.  
  
Dean knelt down, gathering the bundle up with his much-smaller hands and smoothing down the paper towel. “Yeah, I get it,” he said. “This ain’t my first rodeo.”  
  
When he stood, the makeshift ice pack was gingerly held in his arms, an attempt to not get the water on himself a complete failure. “I suppose I can come back and get some more…” he stated cautiously, “unless Sherlock’s coming back…?” He left his worry hanging, remembering how _fast_ the other man had grabbed them and put them into jars.  
  
John's lips pursed, a little disheartened by Dean's trepidation. He knew it was warranted, but that wasn't exactly an encouraging thought either.  
  
"Well, Sherlock always comes back eventually," John mused. "As for right now, he's just left to chase his tail down at Scotland Yard. I dunno when he'll be back, but I am keeping an eye on him.  
  
"Oh, and if you wanted to keep this visit a secret, I'd be glad to keep it," he added, once again concerned that the smaller man's apprehensions might hold him back from seeking out help. "I know he can be… _Intense_ feels like an understatement, now that I think of it."  
  
Dean’s look hardened. “I just don’t want him getting any ideas in his head,” he snipped back as he bristled. “The last thing we need is any traps set and waiting for us. That’s why we’re not supposed to be _seen,_ ” he said with harsh emphasis on _seen._  
  
Dean stepped back, closer to the books and his perceived safety. “Bad enough we were caught last night, worse if there’s traps,” he said. “I don’t want to make Sam leave, but if it’s not safe for my little brother, we won’t have a choice.”  
  
He darted into the darkness behind the books, determinedly diving into the walls before John could look for him. Dean leaned against the wall, breathing heavily.  
  
What was he thinking, going to a human for help? They weren’t humans anymore, they could only rely on each other now.  
  


* * *

  
John straightened at Dean's sudden exit, then slumped back down with a sigh. He was gone, and John was all alone. Again.  
  
He reached down for his laptop and opened it up again, but he knew his heart wasn't in it before he'd even typed out a full sentence. He wished he'd had a chance to reassure Dean that there _wouldn't_ be any traps, and that he and his brother were safe, when it occurred to him that he couldn't guarantee it. John had seen Sherlock react to killers, civilians, the police, old and new friends, and even his enemies. After all his time living with Sherlock-- a little over a year in all-- John had come to assume that he could predict how the detective might react to someone.  
  
This was different. This time, Sherlock had surprised John in a most disturbing way. He _had_ trapped Sam and Dean, and no matter what his reasons and excuses were, that was fundamentally _wrong_. They hadn't exactly sat down to talk about what should and shouldn't be done now that they knew about the tiny brothers, so John had no clue where Sherlock's moral compass was pointed.  
  
"One more night," he promised himself aloud, snapping the laptop shut on his way out of the flat. From the way Dean was talking, it was safe to assume that he and Sam lived somewhere in the flat, hidden. No doubt Sherlock had already worked that out, so Dean's fear of traps wasn't groundless. So, John resolved to ignore his complaining back and sleep on the couch for one night more. If Sherlock tried anything, John would stop him. If he didn't, he'd sit the detective down and they would hash it out properly.  
  
As he gathered his bedding and brought it downstairs, John longed for the day he didn't have to worry about every little thing Sherlock might be up to.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Bros trying to lay low for a bit, but Dean can't just sit around if Sam's in any pain...
> 
> **Next:** March 26 th 2017 at 9pm
> 
> Comments and kudos are love!


	6. Not Pets

Dean pulled himself back into the small room he shared with Sam with a sigh, glad to see his brother was out cold. After spending so many years growing up together, he was more than able to tell if Sam was faking it. They’d lived on their own for a few years now, and spent more time together than with anyone else. They were close. They _had_ to be to be such a good team.  
  
The ice was still melting, and Dean didn’t want his trip to be in vain. He nudged Sam’s shoulder, rolling him over to uncurl his arms.  
  
Sam’s eyes opened and he blinked blearily at Dean. “Wha’s goin’ on?” he asked with a tired yawn, then winced as he stretched.  
  
That wince reinforced that Dean had made the right call. He couldn’t sit around and let his brother suffer, not when there was a source of help that was _willing_ to help, something completely novel for them since shrinking down. No other humans had ever done for them what John had.  
  
“Got you something for the pain,” Dean whispered, keeping his voice low since John remained sitting nearby. After Sherlock caught them the day before and John spotted Dean today, he was starting to wonder if they’d ever been as good at hiding as they thought, or if it was sheer overconfidence and hubris. A number of close calls ran through his mind, all the times they were convinced they'd be caught but weren't.  
  
When the ice touched against Sam’s chest, he recoiled from the cold, wet paper towel. “You shouldn’ta done that,” he mumbled, still half-asleep. “We gotta keep outta sight. That’s what _you_ told me.”  
  
“I’m not sitting around and watching you suffer,” Dean said forcefully as he pressed Sam’s arms against the ice so it was held to his chest. “Sherlock was gone. John offered to help, I just took him up on that.”  
  
“Jerk,” Sam mumbled. “Makin’ big decisions without me.”  
  
“Bitch,” Dean said out of reflex, but there was no heat in the word. “Get some rest so you can do a better job scolding me later.”  
  
“Whatever,” Sam said. “We’re talking about this, y’know.”  
  
Dean tossed one of the fabric scraps from his nest over Sam, covering up his younger brother. “Just try it, Sasquatch.” He glanced at the wall of their home, the one closest to where John was sitting that very moment. Dean was able to hear the armchair creak as the human shifted position. It was lucky they’d found a human that cared.  
  
They might still be in jars if they hadn’t.  
  


* * *

  
Sherlock returned hours later, just as John was about to fall asleep sitting in his armchair.  
  
"Hey," John mumbled as the detective hung up his long wool coat and scarf behind the door. "How'd everything go? Figure out the face-changing cadaver?"  
  
Sharp blue eyes swept across the room, settling on the comforter lazily tossed onto the couch. Sherlock shot John an exasperated look. "Really?"  
  
John sighed, rubbing his eyes and unconsciously angling himself to act as a barrier between Sherlock and the inset bookshelf behind him. "Well, you trapped them once, Sherlock. How am I supposed to know you won't try it again, eh?"  
  
Sherlock frowned and tilted his head at John, as though _confused_ by his concern. "Then you can relax. I won't," he replied, heading toward the kitchen.  
  
"Can you promise me that?"  
  
John's question stopped Sherlock in his tracks just as he was passing by the doctor's armchair. With his focus laser-set on his friend, the detective gave a clear and firm answer. " _Yes._ "  
  
John nodded, accepting Sherlock's promise. "I'm still staying the night."  
  
"Fine," Sherlock conceded, finally able to continue into the kitchen.  
  
"So how was it done?" John called over his shoulder, chancing a glance at the shelf where he'd last seen Dean. His eyes quickly searched for anything, even the tiniest bit of evidence of the small man's presence. His heart fluttered a little when he noticed a miniscule drop of water on the wood, a bit of condensation left behind from the ice pack sitting there. As discretely as possible, John wiped the drop away with the edge of his sleeve. "Some mad body-snatcher, I'd reckon?" he added to Sherlock, keeping up his unassuming pretense.  
  
John barely paid attention to Sherlock's rapid-fire ramble about every single thing he observed and uncovered that night. It really seemed like quite the adventure, but John was simply too exhausted to keep focus. Finally, after Sherlock had retreated into his own den, John settled down on the couch for the night.  
  
For whatever reason, it felt weird to just fall asleep right away, now that he was alone in the room, in the dark. _I can last a few more minutes,_ he told himself, pulling his computer onto his lap and turning it on. He opened up a side-note and jotted down the few details he could remember of Sherlock's escapade, assuming he could just ask the detective for more details in the morning. The last thing he did before succumbing to his fatigue was title the document _The Chameleon Cadaver_.  
  


* * *

  
Sam woke early the next morning, blinking in the hazy darkness that permeated the home he and Dean shared.  
  
He couldn’t quite remember everything from the day before, but he had a feeling that was more because he’d slept most of it away than because he’d actually forgotten anything. The ache in his chest was dulled as he sat up, pushing the soggy fabric he was lying on away and tugging a dry cloth out from under Dean’s nest next to him.  
  
He had plenty, anyway. Sam could barely even _see_ Dean from where he was curled up in the corner of their room.  
  
After warming up a bit in the dry fabric, he begrudgingly decided that it was time to get up for the day. Time was wasting, and he didn’t hear any movement from the humans in the room beyond. It would be best to see if he could slip into the kitchen to scout out anymore food. Biscuits just didn’t hold up after days of eating them, and Sam was always hopeful there would be leftover bacon or sausage, or any meat, really. It would cheer them both to have a change in their diet. Sam wouldn’t even mind some fresher foods, like lettuce or tomato, but he doubted he’d find _that_ left out during breakfast.  
  
Maybe some fruit.  
  
All these hopeful musings filled his mind as he wandered around, getting ready for the day. The thimble of water they kept around was half empty, so Dean would have to fill it. Normally Sam might, being the better climber, but he doubted his ribs would agree, and there was no chance Dean would let him exert himself.  
  
Getting to the kitchen didn’t require any climbing, Sam reasoned as he adjusted the satchel over his shoulder and double-checked the hook hanging out of it. The metal of the barbs winked at him. It wouldn’t be much of a workout to just _check._ They might even get some fresh food out of the deal. He just couldn’t stand sitting around anymore, and he knew if Dean woke up that’s all he’d end up doing while _Dean_ went out to find food.  
  
So he left while Dean was asleep.  
  


* * *

  
A faint groan escaped John as the knot in his back dragged him from sleep. He ran a heavy hand down his face, prying his eyes open to glance at his watch with a sigh. It was much too early for him to be awake after the late one he'd had.  
  
His protesting stomach convinced him to sit up and stretch himself awake. He hadn't eaten much of anything the night before, and with fresh groceries in the fridge and pantry, John was definitely in the mood for a proper breakfast.  
  
He meandered into the kitchen, carefully retrieving a clean, moderately-sized pan from the cupboard. Apparently it was still early enough for even Sherlock Holmes to be asleep, and that was a delicate solace that John was not eager to break. Putting the pan on the stove, he checked out the fridge.   
  
There was a small package of bacon, about three strips' worth that were about to go bad. They would pair well with the eggs John purchased and miraculously managed to _not_ break the other day. He cradled these items in one arm and, on a whim, grabbed a clementine from the mesh bag sitting on the top shelf before closing the fridge door.  
  
It wasn't exactly a full English, but it would do.  
  
John started up the heat on the stove, then went to turn on the electric kettle. That was when he noticed the saucer and froze. A small plate had been set out in the middle of the counter, one edge dotted with tiny scraps of food. John leaned over to find a raisin, a bit of cracker, a dollop of mustard, a few pieces of wheat cereal, and a raw slice of mushroom. He sighed, realizing that this was Sherlock's idea of an experiment.  
  
After double-checking for traps, John decided there really was no harm in it, and decided to concentrate on how best to fry the eggs and bacon as quietly as possible.  
  
While he was working on starting up his breakfast, someone else was watching him. This wasn’t the first time Sam was caught out in the open when he was out gathering supplies, but it was the first time Dean didn’t know where he was.  
  
If Sherlock was around, and not John, he likely would have been much more concerned. Even the _memory_ of what Sherlock had done, placing them in jars, made his breathing quicken. It brought back the impression from when he was just over ten years old, shoved in an old bird’s cage and locked in with his older brother. They’d been trapped long enough to get shipped overseas to their buyer, but had made good on their escape as the package was being delivered. It seemed that humans underestimated people who were too small to open a door. Dean nabbing a paperclip that was as tall as they were when stretched out had been the turning point.  
  
There were enough appliances for Sam to hide behind when he felt John’s footsteps rumble through the ground, and now he watched the human intently. It was a long time since Sam or Dean had actually had a breakfast like that, and watching it come together was mesmerizing.  
  
Other matters, such as what to do about the saucer left on the counter, tugged at his attention the entire time.  
  
The saucer just screamed _trap_ to Sam, and there was no doubt in his mind Dean would agree. No one left food out like that just because. The look on John’s face confirmed he hadn’t known about it, which only left the one culprit, and Sam wasn’t quite sure what to do with the entire situation.  
  
Sam was hesitant to go out in the open, but still. The saucer nagged at him. Plus Dean had talked to John on his own the night before. The man seemed like a good guy, and Sam already felt a bit of trust for the human.  
  
He didn’t move from where he was hiding, but he _did_ blurt out “Is he kidding? Does he _really_ think leaving food out is all it takes to get us to come?” in the hopes of an answer.  
  
John was transferring the cooked bacon and eggs onto a plate when the unexpected, however small, voice startled him. He jumped, the pan clattering against the china in his surprise, but quickly recovered when he reminded himself that he didn't know exactly where the little person was and stiffened.  
  
Was that _Sam?_  
  
John glanced furtively around the counter, finding no trace of the smaller man. Carefully, he set down the pan and looked back at the plate Sherlock had left out and that Sam had commented on. A scoff rolled out of his throat as Sam's outburst finally sank in.  
  
"I think it's more a matter of seeing which kinds of foods you prefer, and which you avoid," he answered, keeping his voice low. He slowly opened a drawer to retrieve a fork. "I made him promise not to set any traps, though, so _this_ is his version of making an effort."  
  
Sam stepped out into the open once the familiar tingle of attention settled over the back of his neck and there was no danger in it. Instead, John's brow rose with innocent surprise for his casual entrance. Sam watched John’s hand lift up with a fork curled between huge fingers, and knew that fork was twice as long and heavier than he was. Though the human could be startling and _fast,_ as his fumble with the pan indicated, he continued to be warm and welcoming, despite the fact that they were so small.  
  
The saucer was only a few inches from Sam, but he made no move to go after the food. His stomach grumbled at him for this, and his mouth was already watering from the smell of fresh bacon in the air. Sam gave no outward indication of his discomfort. They lived so close to the kitchen that most of the aromas from cooking eventually found their way into the small home, so he was used to it.  
  
“I guess that’s a little better,” Sam said dubiously as he looked over the offerings. “We’re not pets. Or some _animals_.” He wondered what Dean would think of the new development. Knowing his brother, he had a feeling Dean’s reaction would be nothing good.  
  
John hadn't expected to see the younger of the brothers so soon after their first encounter, considering all he'd been through. It was encouraging to see that he felt well enough to make the journey from… wherever he and Dean lived.  
  
"I know it's hard to believe, but he _does_ know that," he assured, carrying his own plate to the table.  
  
Before he sat down, a thought struck him and he turned back to Sam. "Do you want any?" he offered, indicating the food. "I reckon you don't get a lot of protein most days. Or anything warm."  
  
“Oh! Um…” Sam was flustered by the question, trying to come up with an answer. His ears heated up and he knew they were turning red. It was easier to _think_ about talking to someone and interacting like this than to actually _do_ it.  
  
Once the curse hit, Sam and Dean really only had each other to rely on. There were few people their size around, and the family that took them in was kind, if slightly baffled by the Americans that appeared out of nowhere in their city. This meant Sam had little interaction with others, often heavily relying on Dean to know how to react when they talked to anyone else.  
  
And of course, talking to a human was another barrier completely.  
  
“I--” Sam took a step back. “I don’t want to take your food you spent all that time cooking. I mean, we took the biscuits but we didn’t really have a choice, we were running low on supplies and figured after a successful case we might be able to get away with it and Dean insisted--”  
  
"Sam," John interrupted, regarding the kid with a kind, if somewhat amused grin. He pulled a chair out from the table, angled it sideways to Sam and sat, hoping the less towering angle might help the poor little guy relax.  
  
"It's really no trouble. I don't mind sharing," he went on, setting the plate in his lap for the moment. He wouldn't touch it until Sam made his decision.  
  
“But…” Sam couldn’t deny that his eyes drifted to the plate every time he tore them away. He didn’t know how to explain his problem, and his stomach implored him to skip the explanations and take the damn food.  
  
“We’re not supposed to accept food from anyone,” Sam said, giving a valiant effort to tell John why he couldn’t just say yes. He swallowed thickly, wondering if he was ruining his one chance to have food that wasn’t snitched from the cupboards or days old. “I didn’t do anything to earn it, and we don’t have anything we can give you in return.”  
  
John chewed his lip while Sam talked himself in circles. To an extent, he could understand why the poor lad was reluctant to accept the offered food. He'd made a point in emphasizing that he and his brother were most certainly _not_ pets.  
  
Where exactly they learned that sentiment in the first place was not a thought John was prepared to have just yet. Not with more pressing matters at hand. As a doctor, John felt it was imperative for Sam and Dean to broaden their diets, which would only benefit their survivability in the long run. At the same time, he needed to make sure they didn't feel like they were just getting handouts from the bigger folk.  
  
"Well," John began after a moment of consideration. "You did help us with all those cases, not just the last one. Consider this a thanks for that. Or, at the very least, the beginnings of an apology for… all your trouble the other day."  
  
“If you say so,” Sam said, still timid and nervous about the idea of just being _given_ food, no matter how good it smelled to him. John smiled to have Sam’s consent, and he immediately used his fork to break off the very ends of two bacon strips and separate an equal portion of scrambled eggs. The meat was cooked well enough to not be too tough on Sam's much smaller teeth, but still have a little bite to it.  
  
He paused when he realized he didn't really have a proper way to serve the tiny meal to Sam. After what Sherlock had pulled with the saucer, he doubted the kid would appreciate another. Apart from that, John was stuck for a moment until he spotted a small pile of clean napkins on the table. He grabbed one and lay it on the counter near Sam, hoping it would do.  
  
Sam stood rooted while John worked. The way John phrased his offer didn’t sound so bad as when Dean talked about it, growling about the times people thought they’d eat out of silver dishes like a dog or bird. Dean had upended those, letting the water soak into the paper towels on the cage bottom.  
  
After his third ‘fit,’ they’d been left with no other food but what was scattered on the ground, forced to eat what they could that night or starve, and after that was when Dean _really_ started working at escape, finally snagging a paper clip that was just within reach. They’d decided the brothers were pets, and vastly underestimated them in turn.  
  
Even with a napkin moved near him and the human cutting smaller portions of food, Sam still felt the need to inform John, “But Dean did most of the work on the cases. He’s good at putting together the little details, and just likes _helping_ people, thanks or not. He always wanted to live up to our father.”  
  
"That's very noble of him," John remarked, impressed by the gesture all over again. Considering the brothers' evident distrust in humans, it was astounding that they still found it in their hearts to help people who didn't even know they were there.  
  
Until now, he supposed.  
  
The mention of their father hadn't escaped John's attention. While he was understandably curious about this little family he and Sherlock had stumbled upon, it was also safe to assume that the reference was not an invitation to pry into Sam's life. He didn't want to scare the kid or make him any more nervous than he already did by simply being much larger.  
  
John leaned forward in his chair to slide Sam's portion carefully from the plate to the napkin, managing to arrange a clean pile of food.   
  
"Sorry about the setup," he murmured, bringing the plate back into his lap. "It was all I could think of." Rubbing his neck awkwardly, he focused on his own breakfast, digging in.  
  
Sam stared down at the food, having a hard time believing his eyes. This was better food than he’d seen in _years,_ and more than he could possibly finish on his own. A slight haze of warmth rose from the eggs. Warm food was completely foreign to Sam and Dean now, a thing of the past. And it was all for him.  
  
“Don’t worry about that,” Sam said shyly. “This is more than enough, and more than I need.” There was no possible way for Sam to finish it all on his own.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Things fall into a bit of a lull after the scare, and both brothers are getting into things on their own without letting the other know-- as per their usual.
> 
> John really doesn't want to know where Sam learned his "Not pets" motto
> 
> **Next:** March 29 th 2017 at 9pm
> 
> Comments and kudos are love!


	7. A Sign

Kneeling down, Sam settled on his knees next to the edge of the napkin, and let his satchel slide off his shoulder. He dug through it, finding a sheaf of filched aluminum foil pushed to the side. That, he could fold into a roughly-made spoon, and his own silver knife could do the rest.  
  
Slicing carefully through the bacon, Sam portioned it into pieces small enough to eat, then did the same for the eggs. They were almost crumbs to John now, but perfect for Sam. He mixed them together, distantly remembering having something close to this, only called an ‘omelet’ and with cheese, and hoping to relive the memory.  
  
The food was everything Sam remembered, and then some. He closed his eyes to savor the flavor as it exploded in his mouth, and let out a sigh. Warm food in his stomach had to be one of the best feelings in the world. It helped pushed away the chill in the air that he knew only existed because his skin was thinner than a human’s (though England was also a good deal colder than their native Kansas as well). “I’ve missed this,” he mumbled, wishing Dean wasn’t missing out.  
  
John's eyes lit up as Sam tucked in, coming up with suitable utensils in no time at all. What had looked like such a small portion to John a moment ago seemed like a _ton_ of food next to Sam. He reckoned that more was certainly better than less, and this way Sam might be able to take some home to Dean. The elder brother deserved the treat just as much as Sam.  
  
"If there's any left over," John put in, though the idea of Sam being able to finish all that food by himself was borderline laughable, "I think we have some cling film lying around somewhere, could be good for… packaging. Just putting that out there." With a shrug, he took another forkful of eggs and bacon.  
  
John almost slapped himself on the forehead as it hit him: he was neglecting to check up on his patient. "Er. You look well, Sam. How are the ribs doing?" he asked, his full attention on the kid.  
  
“Oh… It’s feeling better,” Sam said, caught off guard again by so much attention-- and from such a _large_ source-- all on him at once. Still, the feeling of being _watched_ on his neck was subdued, and he gave John a reassuring smile. If more humans were like him, they might not have to hide all the time. The thought of being able to bring food back to Dean made Sam feel better inside as well, despite the scolding he knew he was in for no matter what. Dean would forgive him. He _loved_ bacon.  
  
Sam straightened in his seat, and gave the entrances to the kitchen, both the humans’ doorway and their crack in the wall, a brief look to make sure no one else was around, then lifted up his shirt to show John the bruises. He intently despised displaying his ribs, knowing just how thin he was and how much they stood out, stark against his skin, but it wasn’t so bad with just John around. Having Sherlock close by with that unnerving gaze would make it a thousand times worse. “It hurt more yesterday, but the bruise is still pretty dark,” he explained as he looked at John to gauge his reaction.  
  
"Yeah, I heard you had a rough time of it," muttered John as he leaned forward a bit for a better look at the bruises. "It's coming along, though. Quicker than I'd expected. I'd be surprised if you weren't back at a hundred percent by the end of the week."  
  
John sat back, returning the smile. It was a little tight, the memory of what Sherlock had done to the small lad still fresh in his memory, but he did his best to push past it so they could all move on.  
  
"So, ah." The doctor set his plate aside on the table, lacing his fingers idly in his lap. "Since we're setting ground rules, I… I can't lie, I am _insanely_ curious about you and your brother. But," he quickly added, "I don't want to make either of you feel uncomfortable or unsafe, so. For future reference, is there anything that I absolutely should not ask?"  
  
Sam bowed his head, still nervous about all the attention on him. Somewhere deep inside he’d known these questions would come, but that didn’t make answering them any easier. “I-- I dunno,” he said lamely, wishing he had a better answer. “We never really talked to humans before, at least not since we were kids…” _And humans ourselves,_ his mind helpfully supplied.  
  
To distract himself, Sam nudged the bacon and eggs on his napkin around. _Dean_ wouldn’t want him talking to John at all. Not without some backup, at least, and right now his backup was sleeping the morning away bundled up into a corner.  
  
 _Dean already talked to John on his own,_ Sam reminded himself, still put out that his brother had risked his neck just for some ice, though it _had_ helped him fall asleep. John was proving himself to be a better man than they’d dared hope, for so long worried about Sherlock’s experiments and the fact that a doctor would have all the skills needed to dissect them.  
  
“I guess Dean won’t want anyone knowing where we are or where we live,” Sam reasoned, assuming that was why Dean had cut him off the other day when he was talking. “And he’s not a fan of telling Sherlock anything after getting dropped in a jar.”  
  
John nodded. "Fair enough, I suppose," he half-chuckled, studying his hands for a moment.  
  
There it was again. Another mention of Sam and Dean's childhood, possibly a history with other humans. Simply recalling Dean's reference to someone dislocating Sam's shoulder in their youth made John's half-full stomach turn, but it didn't take a detective to see that Sam was still quite shy and nervous around John, another human, so he filed that away for another time.  
  
Something in him doubted 'another time' would ever come, and it was probably best not to dig up bad memories.  
  
"Can I ask where you're from?" John ventured, trying to keep up a friendly tone. "It's just, the accent is a little… _telling_."  
  
Sam had to laugh at that, as nervous as he was. It helped him relax where he was sitting, and he placed his makeshift spoon and silver knife down next to his food to let his stomach settle. It had been _years_ since he’d had a meal so rich. “Yeah, we’re not exactly _locals,_ ” he said dryly, remembering Dean’s insistence on calling the biscuits _cookies_ and his absolute offense when he found out french fries were called chips no matter what. Not just with “Fish and Chips.”  
  
Brushing off his hands, he shifted his seat so his legs were in front of him, buying himself a moment to consider his answer. “We were born in Lawrence, Kansas,” was what Sam decided to go with. “The American Midwest.” He figured that was safe enough. “We lived on the road with our dad until I was ten, and… that’s when we ended up here.”  
  
It took John a moment to recall what little he'd retained about American geography in his school days. The Midwest, _Kansas_ … He was almost certain that was one of the square ones in the middle.  
  
Apart from the notable gap in Sam’s story between growing up in America and 'ending up' in London, one thing stood out to John.  
  
"Was it dangerous?" he asked, unable to keep the image of another small man wandering around Lawrence with two even _smaller_ children. "I mean, traveling around, even with family, that must have been scary as a kid."  
  
“Oh, no, not at all,” Sam said, warming to the subject as he recalled the happier years of his life roadtripping with his dad and brother. Back then, he didn’t know how good he had it. A family, his rightful size, people wouldn’t look down on him just because he was shorter than they were… Even the opportunity to go to school. _That_ was sorely missed, though Dean had taught Sam everything he knew and they’d occasionally found vents to look out on the television to pick up more.  
  
“I didn’t like roadtripping much when I was a kid,” Sam recalled. “I always wanted to go to school, even if it was just for one _solid_ year, instead of switching to a new one every few months only to find them learning something completely different. It was easy to feel like everyone was smarter, since they had a head start on us. Dean hated it. And I guess if I knew what dad did for a living, I mighta been more scared, but we had each other, and we had the Impala.”  
  
Sam’s eyes sparkled at that. “Dean could even fix the Impala up. Dad and Bobby taught him everything they knew about cars!”  
  
Then, his words caught up to him along with his present circumstances. He wished again that they’d never been cursed as children. He could have even gone to college by now if he was just a normal kid. “I mean… it was nice,” he finished, his cheeks warm as he hoped Dean never found out how much he’d told John.  
  
The more Sam spoke, the less John understood. There wasn't much context being given to him, but it sounded like Sam was referring to things John had assumed would be out of his reach. Schools and cars-- the image of _Dean_ , shorter than John's finger, fixing up a car took him aback. By the end of it, John's head was spinning with more questions than ever.  
  
Unless this was all in a scaled-down society, and he was seriously missing something going on in America.  
  
"Okay…" he breathed at length, steeling himself with a hard blink and a hand run down his face. "Sorry, um. You might have to back up a minute, because I'm a _bit_ confused."  
  
“Oh, right,” Sam said, staring down at his hands and threading his fingers together into a knot. “Sorry. It’s been so long since everything changed now it’s easy to forget this wasn’t always normal.”  
  
He looked around the kitchen, reminding himself of his actual scale to everything around him. Getting caught up in memories of the past did no one any good. He couldn’t open the door to the fridge now, he couldn’t lift a pan and place it on the oven. He _could_ crack an egg, but the mess would go everywhere since he’d be punching in the shell.  
  
Sam turned from the kitchen and met John’s eyes. “We weren’t always this size. We were just normal kids growing up.”  
  
John's brow furrowed as concern started to bleed through in his confusion. It took a good long moment for the information to really sink in.  
  
"That's--" John stopped himself before he could call the situation _impossible_ , because Sam himself was clear, tangible proof that it wasn't. He let a few of Sam's anecdotes piece themselves together with this new insight before he got puzzled all over again.  
  
"So… You're actually-- or, you _used_ to be… human?" he inferred, trying to keep an open mind and accepting manner. "How-how does that even work?"  
  
“W-well, that’s what happens when you get cursed,” Sam said as he tripped over his words, his ears aflame. “That’s what Dean called it when this lady broke into our room and hit us with this bright flash. Dad wasn’t around to stop her, and s-she took us away.”  
  
He stumbled to his feet, trying to straighten his clothes in a hurry. “I-- I shouldn’t talk about it,” he said, worried he’d said too much. “There’s no use dwelling on the past and we can’t go back to what we used to be, so…”  
  
And John was confused again.  
  
Luckily, he couldn’t tumble down _that_ rabbit hole, because Sam had closed the discussion. John nodded, understanding Sam's decision perfectly. The lad had divulged a lot of information, probably much more than he meant to.  
  
"Yeah, I completely get it--"   
  
Then John blinked when Sam was suddenly on the move.  
  
Out of the corner of his eye, Sam had seen the saucer left out by Sherlock. A little heat rose to his face at the memory of the other human putting them in _jars,_ and he decided to leave a message of his own. He squatted down next to it, crushing the cracker into crumbs.  
  
John’s brow rose as he watched Sam work, mechanically working on a few more bites of his food. It didn't seem like Sam was taking anything, but John wasn't entirely sure what he was trying to do either. So he kept quiet, chewing as silently as he could.  
  
Once Sam had the cracker crushed completely, he sliced up some bits from the mushroom. None of the food was _bad,_ so he felt a little bad for wasting it. Not that he or Dean would ever take food left out in such an obvious ploy, but still.  
  
Then again, Sherlock had it coming.  
  
Sam carefully arranged the food, pushing the slices of mushroom to form straight edges and adding the raisin in for good effect. The crackers formed the curves, with the wheat cereal helping thicken the line, and for balance Sam used his knife to scrape off the mustard and add it to the design, highlighting the word with yellowy emphasis.  
  
 **NO**  
  
No, they wouldn’t accept food left out like that. Sam thought it got his point across perfectly. He glanced over his shoulder at John, and his smile was a little easier this time. “Think he’ll get the point?”  
  
As the small word began to take shape with every bit of food available to Sam, John's amused grin gradually grew. When it was done, he couldn't contain a mirthful laugh if he tried.  
  
"Honestly, he just might be thick enough to not--"  
  
A muffled _thump_ from down the hall shut John right up. He recognized the sound well enough as Sherlock literally rolling out of bed.  
  
"Shit," he hissed, shooting silently to his feet. Without hesitation, he opened a drawer below the counter and tore off a sizeable corner of cling film, setting it near what remained of Sam's bacon and eggs. It was more than large enough to hold the tiny meal.  
  
"I can buy you a minute. Cheers!" John whispered, giving Sam an encouraging nod before hurrying down the hall to fend off the waking detective.  
  
“T-thanks!” Sam said, too late to catch John as he ran. He blinked. Humans were _fast._  
  
All the more reason for Sam to get out of sight just as fast. He fell to his knees by his breakfast, quickly wiping the mustard from the blade. There was no way for him to get rid of the napkin as evidence to his presence in the kitchen, but he quickly shifted the bacon and eggs onto the cling wrap.  
  
The food was still warm, which meant Sam might be able to bring his older brother a warm meal for the first time in over a decade. It would be a good way to help pay back Dean for looking after him. Sam was glad John had understood why he had such a hard time saying “Yes” to the offer, and gladder still that it hadn’t stopped him from letting Sam share. He hadn’t felt so full in years.  
  
With the eggs and bacon bundled in his arms, Sam glanced briefly at the kitchen entrance as he slung his satchel over his shoulder. He wasted no time heading for the entrance in the walls, getting out of sight, hopefully out of mind.  
  


* * *

  
John waited right outside Sherlock's bedroom door, glancing back toward the kitchen. His fingers twitched nervously as he worried about Sam, wondered if he made it out yet. The poor fella had been nervous enough around John until they got talking, seeing Sherlock again would definitely have given the kid a heart attack.  
  
A moment later, Sherlock's door creaked open and his wild black bed-head poked out.  
  
"You're up early," the detective remarked, his voice even deeper than usual from sleep.  
  
John gave him an annoyed stare. "Seriously? A saucer? Did you really think that would work?"  
  
Sherlock waggled his eyebrows at John. "Ah, you noticed that. Very observant of you." He made a move to walk past John but the doctor stepped in his way, keeping up his confrontational manner.  
  
"I told you, Sherlock, no traps--"  
  
"Oh, _please_ ," Sherlock groaned. "It’s not a trap, it’s an _experiment_. All things considered, it was the tamest thing I could have done on such short notice."   
  
“ ‘Short notice,’ you make it sound like a bloody appointment,” scoffed John. Shaking his head, Sherlock pushed past his shorter friend and into the kitchen. John followed closely.  
  
Sherlock ignored John's breakfast altogether, taking long strides to check on his saucer. His eyes immediately widened and his brow knit at the sight.  
  
" _John._ "  
  
"What is it now?" John sighed, acting like he had no idea what Sam had done.  
  
Sherlock swept aside the napkin near the plate, much to John's relief, and brought his face as close as he could to the message as he could without disturbing it. He rounded on John. "They've been here. Did you see this?"  
  
John merely shrugged. "It wasn't there last I saw it."  
  
"And when was that??" Sherlock demanded.  
  
"I dunno, two minutes ago?"  
  
Sherlock's brow furrowed and he looked back at the saucer. "Quick. Fascinating." Despite the faintest glimmer of interest in his eyes, he picked up the plate and deemed the experiment moot. " _Dammit_ ," he muttered, tossing his experiment in the bin, saucer and all before stalking into the main room.  
  
John rolled his eyes, stooping to retrieve the perfectly good saucer from the trash. At least Sherlock had dismissed all the signs of Sam's presence, besides the obvious. However, he doubted any of them had heard the last of this.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sam finds a new way to fight back at Sherlock, and opens up to John. Maybe a little more than he meant to
> 
> **Next:** April 2 nd 2017 at 9pm
> 
> Comments and kudos are love!


	8. A Morning Puzzle

Sam waited close to the entrance into the walls, curiously listening as the two humans came back into the kitchen. He wanted to see Sherlock’s reaction to his not-so-subtle protest against the saucer of food meant to lure them out. Dean was going to throw a _fit_ when he found out what Sherlock was up to.  
  
Watching it all play out between Sherlock and John, Sam did have to smirk when he saw the saucer get tossed out. _Gotcha_ , Sam thought in triumph. He’d have to tell Dean the whole story.  
  
Before turning to go, Sam glanced at John and thought _Thank you,_ wishing he’d had the opportunity before Sherlock woke. For the first time in their lives, they’d found a human that didn’t think they should be caged and trapped, and who actually _cared_.  
  
The walk back to their home by the books went quick, and Sam clutched the warm food to his chest. He could hear Sherlock out in the main room, and silenced his footsteps. By the end of everything, they were going to be paranoid of being found out at all times. If he figured out their little home was next to John’s chair, they’d have no way to stop him from widening the entrance behind the books. The image of a hand snaking into the main room of their home was a terrifying thought to Sam.  
  
All his meandering thoughts were cut off when he saw Dean burst out of their front entrance, shoving the block of wood that served them as a ‘door’ out of the way in a rush. Sam skid to a halt, then couldn’t stop from snickering at Dean’s disheveled appearance. Even the spike in his hair was crooked. Dean must have just woken up.  
  
“Dude!” Dean hissed, just as aware of the humans sharing the room adjacent to them. “What the hell! Where’ve you--”  
  
His eyes fell on the bundle of food Sam held to his chest, and Sam acted quick.  
  
Grabbing one of Dean’s elbows, he steered his older brother back to the perceived safety of their home. “I can explain,” Sam insisted. “But first, it’s still warm. Eat.”  
  
Before Dean could protest, Sam shoved the package into his arms. Dean’s eyes ballooned at the heat. “Eggs and bacon?” he asked, his eyes shining.  
  
Sam nodded. Dean brought the food to their makeshift table, slowly peeling the cling wrap open. The aroma of eggs and bacon became more invasive, permeating their entire home. “Holy crap,” Dean whispered. “How? What did you _do?_ ” The last part was more accusation than question.  
  
Sam rolled his eyes. “Like you didn’t do the same yesterday,” he shot back defensively. “I went to grab some supplies, and John came into the kitchen. He didn’t spot me, and was cooking his breakfast, but Sherlock left a saucer of food out… I guess to lure us to him? and I just… asked John if he’s seriously expecting that to work.” The entire time Sam talked, Dean ate right through the food he’d brought. “Then he offered to share his breakfast. Said we earned it when we helped with all those cases, and as an apology for the other day.”  
  
“ _He’s_ not the one that has to apologize for that,” Dean said, spearing a piece of bacon with his silver knife to punctuate his words. “He didn’t do it.”  
  
“Right.” Sam leaned back against the wall. “But I doubt Sherlock will be the one to say he’s sorry after all that. You know how he is.”  
  
Dean scoffed. “A real _people_ person.” He paused. “So you say he’s leaving out food in a saucer for us?”  
  
“Yeah. I spelt out _NO_ with the food in the hopes that he gets the point.”  
  
Dean’s eyes gleamed. “I think we can do better than that…”  
  


* * *

  
In spite of John's dissuasions, Sherlock had another saucer set up the next evening. The offered food items were different than before, but they were just as varied. Content that this was all Sherlock had planned-- regardless of his negative initial result-- and with no traps in sight, John finally retreated to his own bed upstairs that night. Sherlock knew better than to stake the smaller men out, certain that his presence would disrupt potential results, so he was in bed by late evening.  
  
The detective was out of bed bright and early the next morning to check on the experiment. Completely ignoring the tray of tea and crumpets their landlady, Mrs. Hudson, had brought up, he practically flew to the kitchen counter.  
  
Hours later, John slumped his way downstairs to find the detective hunched over the kitchen table staring at the small plate with laser-like focus, his chin resting on his folded hands. Biting back a yawn, John entered the kitchen and peered down at the saucer.  
  
Another message had been left, only this time a single letter was sculpted out of the food:  
  
**B**  
  
John quirked an eyebrow at the strange note, glancing at Sherlock's deep frown. "Morning puzzle, then?" he quipped.  
  
"It means something," the detective surmised, pressing his hands into a posture of prayer. "They're trying to communicate."  
  
"Whatever you say, Spock," mumbled John, partaking in their landlady's kind treat.  
  
He perused the morning paper for cases while he ate, absently wondering what exactly the brothers were playing at with the note.  
  


* * *

  
As for the brothers in question, Dean was chuckling to himself at how effective his ploy was turning out to be. Sherlock was putting _way_ too much faith in their ‘communication’ with him. If Dean wanted to deliver a message at this point, after being stuck in the jars, he’d do it in person. From well out of reach and close to an entrance into the walls he could escape into.  
  
Sherlock wasn’t the only one who could run experiments, and Dean was keenly looking forward to when this one came to fruition.  
  
He was still chuckling when he ran into Sam, and got a bitchface for it. Sam was used to Dean playing pranks on him. This was the first time they’d ever done _anything_ the humans might notice.  
  
“What?” Sam asked.  
  
“Oh, nothin,’ just having some fun.”  
  
Sam glanced behind Dean at the path he’d come from. “You were in the kitchen,” he stated flatly, giving Dean a scolding look. “What are you thinking? _Sherlock’s_ there. We can’t have him finding our entrance.”  
  
“Ah,” Dean held up a finger as he corrected Sam. “I was in the _walls._ Not the kitchen. I was checkin’ him out to see if he was still looking at the saucer.”  
  
Not even Sam could hold in a huff of laughter at that. “I can’t believe he’s actually reading into this,” he said. “He should have gotten the hint the first time.” He clapped Dean on the back. “We’ve still got plenty of biscuits,” he offered. “Up for some breakfast?”  
  
“Man I miss the bacon already…” Dean let Sam lead the way back home.  
  


* * *

  
Though Sam and Dean kept away from Sherlock, wherever he was, they didn’t mind when John was in a room. Not anymore. They had a keen proprietary sense for the one human who’d helped them out, so John was shadowed from the walls from time to time throughout the day.  
  
Silent shadows meant he was bound to get startled, like when Dean perched on one of the high shelves in the kitchen, enough out of reach so that Dean could control if he wanted to be grabbed or wanted to back off and get into the walls.  
  
He stood there with his arms crossed, all casual swagger and sass. “What’s up, doc?”  
  
The unforeseen greeting sent John’s heart leaping into his throat, sputtering in the middle of his sip of tea. Quickly transferring the cup to the counter before he lost his grip on it, he lightly coughed to keep the tea from going down the wrong way.  
  
He glanced toward the main room to make sure he hadn't alerted Sherlock to his surprise. The detective had spent the better part of the morning dwelling on the letter left behind by Sam and Dean, speculating what it might mean or represent. When he'd spiraled into a maddening corner, Sherlock retreated inward and turned to his violin to help channel his thought process. Nothing could disturb him when he was like this, unless he wanted to be disturbed. In any case, the crooning strings would easily drown out hushed voices.  
  
Once John had his breath back, his eyes darted around the kitchen. The voice sounded like it had come from higher up, so that narrowed down his search considerably, and he spotted Dean soon enough.  
  
"Oh, you know. Same old," he croaked, trying to offer a grin as he cleared his throat one last time. "Ah. Is this gonna become a regular thing with you two? Materializing in the kitchen at odd times, giving my nerves a run for their money?"  
  
Dean leaned against the side of the cupboard, kicking up a boot against the wall as he brushed a hand through his short, spiky blond hair. “Now that all depends on you,” he said as he rotated his shoulders and generally tried to look as big as he could, channeling some of the pride he felt at catching John off guard. It was one way to make sure he hadn’t lost his touch on sneaking around, since he didn’t have the useful tell that Sam did, letting him know when he was spotted. Dean’s skill lay in a different direction altogether, pairing with Sam’s to help them find what they needed for survival.  
  
“If it’s dangerous for me an’ Sam here, we’ll find another place to live,” Dean noted. “You won’t see us around anymore. But you look like a stand up guy, and I have to tell ya, we could use a good break for once. Life can’t all be downs, now, can it?”  
  
"No, I should hope not," John agreed as he considered what Dean was implying. He couldn't exactly argue with the smaller man's logic. Still, the thought of driving the brothers away, indirectly subjecting them to the dangers of emigrating through Central London, wasn't a pleasant thought at all.  
  
The doctor let out a long breath. "Look, um. Whatever you guys do is obviously your decision. But… well, frankly, I'd feel terrible if we'd _forced_ you to uproot your entire lives, all because he was an idiot." He nodded in Sherlock's direction, keeping his voice just loud enough to not be heard over the detective's violin.  
  
Dean nodded, listening to John's words with a keen ear. “We're still here, ain't we?” he asked rhetorically. “There's no traps yet, and it'll take more than some food left out to chase us away.”  
  
Kicking himself away from the wall, Dean brushed his hands off. “But that's not why I'm here now,” he said. “Seems every time I see ya I'm saying thanks for somethin’ or other. Like the bacon yesterday. Or makin’ sure my pain in the ass little brother don't get himself in more trouble when I'm not around, so… here.”  
  
From behind himself on the shelf, Dean dragged some coins out to where John could reach. “You'd be _amazed_ what some people drop.”  
  
John's brow rose, and his eyes flashed between Dean and his offering before he tentatively stepped forward to accept it. He reached up haltingly, more than a little nervous about his hand being so close to the four inch tall man, but he managed to slide the coins into his palm without incident. The most Dean reacted was to step back and give his hand space to maneuver.  
  
He marveled at the coins, turning them each over to see three images of the queen gleaming up at him. Two quid and a 20 pence piece. Strictly speaking, it wasn't worth much to the human. But considering that Dean had put in the effort to haul the coins all that way just to say thanks, it was quite a remarkable gesture.  
  
"Thank you!" he whispered, pocketing the coins. "I-I don't really know what to say, other than… I'm glad I could be of help."  
  
“Don't mention it,” Dean said. “In fact, it's better that you don't.” He hitched up his duffel. “I'm sure we'll be seeing you around.”  
  
The converse of that, whether John would see _them_ around was entirely a different dilemma that Dean didn't know how they'd approach. Sherlock was easy, as far as that went. There was no way they'd approach him willingly after being stuffed into jars. All Dean needed for a reminder was the memory of Sam curled up in captivity again. Just like when they were kids, but at least without people acting like they were animals, assuming that their words were mimicked like a parrot’s.  
  
Not even Sherlock had gone that far, and the amount of interest he was putting into the letters Dean was leaving him was entertaining.  
  
John smiled. "I'll keep that in mind," he promised with another furtive look toward the main room. Sherlock remained oblivious to Dean's presence, though John got the feeling that the smaller man's visit was coming to an end. He wasn't even sure if it could technically be called a _visit_ if Dean and Sam technically lived there, too.  
  
Did that make them flatmates?  
  
Not wanting to open that can of worms right that second, John picked his teacup back up and tipped it toward Dean in a toast, leaning against the table. "You take care of yourself now."  
  
“Always do.” Dean gave John a jaunty salute as he stepped away from the edge. The path through the walls was less precarious than scaling down the cabinet, and nowhere near as risky as climbing out in the open.  
  
His mind was already on what he and Sam would do for food that night as he slipped into a crack hidden by the shadows. Staying focused on the future and every possible way things could go wrong was their best hope of survival.  
  
That, and his plans for Sherlock's saucer of food the next day would be a great way to break the tedium.  
  
John stood there for another moment after Dean left, chuckling to himself as he realized that he'd just had his _third conversation_ with an absolutely tiny man who, along with his younger brother, lived somewhere in John and Sherlock's flat and _used to be human_.  
  
"My life is insane," he concluded, downing the rest of his tea in one pull.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> What could Dean possibly have in mind........
> 
> Nothing but trouble brewing over here.
> 
>  **Next:** April 5 th 2017 at 9pm
> 
> Comments and kudos are love!


	9. Wayward Shoelaces

For the next few days, Sherlock remained fixated on the letters Sam and Dean were leaving on his saucers. He took a few deceptively open-and-shut cases, but his true focus remained on the puzzle he continued to wake up to.  
  
After the second letter, **I** , appeared, John found Sherlock standing in front of the mirror above the fireplace. He had stuck post-it notes to the glass, two with the letters and several others with notes, possibilities for the message or word being spelled out, and general scribblings that made John shake his head at the detective.  
  
When a **T** turned up the next day, things really escalated. The mirror was nearly obscured by post-it notes wondering if this was the beginning of a sentence or if the word would continue, and if the latter, _what word?_  
  
Knowing Dean, John felt he had a fairly good idea of what was going on.  
  
It didn't hit Sherlock until he was sticking the fourth letter, **C** , up next to the others and quickly filled in the final letter for himself. His intense focus drooped into a flat look, scolding himself for not seeing this coming.  
  
"I applaud you for your _maturity!_ " Sherlock called to the empty room, loud enough that the brothers were sure to hear it, wherever they were, and he immediately began to tear down the notes.  
  
His tormentor wasn’t far from the scene of the crime, naturally, and could barely keep his breathing under control as he cracked up. Dean was watching the fun, the same as he’d done each day while Sherlock tried to divine the meaning behind the letters. He was almost wheezing with laughter as he peered out of the bullet hole in the wall he was standing close to, the best place to overlook the room.  
  
“I applaud you for your _tenacity!_ ” Dean hollered out the hole, glad he was nowhere near their home by the fireplace. If he was down there, he couldn’t take the risk of Sherlock figuring the location of their home. It was the one place they could feel truly safe. He tensed as his words died off, inwardly caught off guard by his own brash actions.  
  
Sherlock's head snapped up at the sudden voice and he stared into the mirror, turning slowly to scrutinize the yellow smiley-face high on the opposite wall. The detective had spray-painted and shot at the face months ago when he was bored, and it was the only possible way for such a small voice-- obviously Dean's, he'd heard more than enough of that man's shout to recognize it-- to be heard so clearly from where Sherlock stood.  
  


[ ](http://sta.sh/01yttg023jcr)

  
Dropping the post-it notes for Dean's vulgar prank to the floor, Sherlock crossed the room with careful steps. He was well within arm's reach by the time the couch stopped him from approaching further. There were eight bullet holes in all, two directly in the eyes of the face, one on the nose, and the rest dotted along the smile. By now it was impossible to tell which one Dean was behind, the breaches too small to see through.  
  
The detective delicately pressed his fingers to the wall, running them over each hole one by one with calculating focus. One thing he knew for sure, it was highly unlikely this was anywhere near Sam and Dean's home within the flat. He, of course, knew from the moment he saw the tiny men that they had lived in 221B Baker Street for quite some time. It was obvious, one look at their shoes told all. But these bullet holes were much too high up to be practical, the eye-holes even with Sherlock's intense blue-greens.  
  
They were ideal windows for an outpost of some kind. A quick glance around told Sherlock that practically the entire room was visible from there, and some of the kitchen. The brothers couldn’t have _asked_ for a more perfect observational point, and he'd created it himself.  
  
The door downstairs opened and closed, pulling Sherlock out of his thoughts. Going by the weight of the footsteps ascending the stairs and the late-afternoon hour, John was home from his part-time job at a clinic in town. Removing his hand from the wall, Sherlock surveyed each hole one last time, straightened his suit jacket pointedly, and retreated into the kitchen. When John entered, he was in the middle of making a sandwich.  
  
John's brow rose. Sherlock always refrained from eating when he was really focused on something, claiming that digestion slowed him down. Seeing his flatmate so despondent in his mess of a PB&J, John knew right away what had happened.  
  
" _Bitch_ , right?"  
  
"Of course," Sherlock mumbled with his mouth full.  
  
John chuckled. "Sorry, pal. I'd say 'better luck next time,’ but… well, y’know." Shaking his head, John removed his coat and hung it up on its hook behind the door in the main room.  
  


* * *

  
With the culmination of Dean’s prank on Sherlock, it was no surprise that the saucers vanished from sight the next night. Dean had a whole slew of words planned out if he needed to keep going, **BITCH** being only the first of the bunch. With the removal of the food lure, he was left to come up with another way to make his point.  
  
He had no shortage of ideas to use on Sherlock. After being stuffed in a jar, Dean was inclined to be inventive.  
  
His next plan required Sam’s help, and a time at night when no one else was awake in the flat. This time, if they were caught out in the open, getting back into the walls would take too long.  
  
They had to walk across the floor of the flat.  
  
It wasn’t a place where either brother spent much time. Sam was the lookout, keeping an eye out for any waking humans. From down on the floor, even John would be a danger if he didn’t spot them. Their legs couldn’t be longer than two inches, at the most, and outrunning an oblivious human was a difficult proposition when humans measured their height in feet (or meters, here in England, but Dean had never paid much mind to that).  
  
“This is a terrible idea,” Sam shot at Dean as he helped him pull the shoelaces free, slowly unlacing the huge shoes they were standing on. He was as alert for the feeling of John and Sherlock walking through the flat as he was for the tingle on the back of his neck, prepared to raise the alarm.  
  
Dean smirked. “I dunno, I think it’ll be pretty effective,” he countered. “What would _you_ do if you couldn’t find any shoelaces in the house?”  
  
Sam scoffed. “Not much.” He held up his boot in a reminder that they were laceless slip-ons, unlike Dean’s.  
  
“Well, lucky for _us,_ Sherlock needs these.” Dean bundled up the first lace into his arms and they made their way over to the other shoe.  
  
Not long after, all of Sherlock’s shoes mysteriously had no laces while John’s were left alone, and Sam and Dean’s storage room on the right side of the fireplace had a collection of laces taking up space.  
  
Sherlock was unaware of their deed until he received an urgent call from Lestrade halfway through breakfast. A coat had washed up out of the Thames, one that belonged to a man who had been missing and presumed dead for the last six months. The pockets were stuffed with coins, makeshift weights to make it sink, and there was no sign of the man's body. Sherlock immediately abandoned his toast and jumped up to get dressed and fussed at John to do the same, eager for the most interesting case Scotland Yard had come up with in nearly a _week_. John finished his cereal quickly before getting ready himself.  
  
"John!" Sherlock shouted two minutes later.  
  
"Yeah, alright, I'm almost set!" John called back, retrieving his phone from the charger upstairs.  
  
When he stepped back through the flat door to grab his coat, he found that the detective was nowhere near ready to go. He didn't even have his suit jacket on, and his white button-down was half-closed and disheveled. The fact that he was practically crawling around the living room, clawing desperately through everything on the floor, wasn't helping his appearance either.  
  
"Erm… what are you doing?"  
  
Sherlock emerged from behind his armchair with a pair of his shoes, examining them at every angle. With a frustrated growl, he tossed them aside, one landing on the couch and the other nearly hitting John.  
  
"Hey! What's gotten into you?" John demanded.  
  
"They've taken them," Sherlock growled, hopping over his chair to dig through the discarded papers by the trunk.  
  
John frowned. "Taken what?"  
  
"My _shoelaces_ John!" He tossed the papers haphazardly and rounded on the doctor with a scathing look of pure impatience. "All of my shoes, _useless_. I don't have _time_ for this! Lestrade won't be able to hold back Forensics for long!"  
  
"Well, what do you expect me to do about it?" John shrugged helplessly. Apart from the ones he was wearing, John only owned one other pair of shoes, and those were buried in his belongings because he only wore them for formal occasions that never came up. If Sherlock was in such a hurry, those weren't even worth mentioning, never mind that it was unlikely they would fit.  
  
Sherlock scowled at the smiley-face before grabbing the nearest pair of shoes and hurrying downstairs calling for Mrs. Hudson. When he returned, the shoes had been haphazardly laced with twine. Sherlock's face discouraged John from commenting, so he let it go as the detective fetched his jacket and put on his coat and scarf.  
  
Before he followed after Sherlock, John glanced around the destroyed living room with a shake of his head.  
  
"Shoelaces…" he muttered, shaking his head in amusement as he closed the door behind him.  
  


* * *

  
With both humans out of the flat, and the room in complete disarray after Sherlock’s desperate scramble to find his shoelaces, Sam and Dean knew to take full advantage. It wasn’t often they got to go out and get supplies without worrying that _everything_ was put back in its place. No one would be able to tell what was supposed to be there and what was missing after Sherlock’s rampage.  
  
Sam shook his head in complete disbelief. “I can’t believe you and Sherlock,” he said to Dean. Not once, in all the years they’d been cursed, had either of them dared to do anything _close_ to what Dean had done that day.  
  
 _Purposely_ antagonizing someone big enough to snatch them both into one fist and stick them in a cage if he wanted.  
  
“You’ve done a lot of stupid shit, Dean, but this takes the cake.”  
  
Dean straightened his shoulders proudly. “I’m just getting warmed up,” he boasted as he slipped a discarded paper clip into his satchel to join the others, along with a forgotten thumb tack. He was doing the humans a _favor_ by picking it up for them. The storage room was going to be bursting by the end of the day with all these new supplies and the shoelaces.  
  
Aside from their quiet banter, the flat was completely silent. If they didn’t know that the two humans would be out for the next few hours, they never would have risked being out in the open like this, the floor stretching away under their boots. It would take too long to get to safety if anyone barged in.  
  
Out of habit, Sam was bristled and ready to sound the alarm if he felt anyone looking at him, and he knew Dean was ready to run with him. It was their best shot.  
  
Dean chortled as he kicked scattered papers out of his way to find a loose thread hidden underneath. “We should do this more often when we need to stock up,” he joked to Sam, stuffing the thread into his bag.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> **B--I--T--C--**
> 
> So Dean's mission to spell out his tribulations to Sherlock has ended, and he's going to up the ante! Nothing can go wrong here, can it?
> 
> Dean could antagonize a rock.
> 
> Sherlock's the rock.
> 
> More fun on the way.
> 
> **Next:** April 9 th 2017 at 9pm
> 
> Comments and kudos keep us going!


	10. Trouble Brews

John returned to the flat alone hours later.  
  
In spite of Lestrade's lackeys, Sergeant Sally Donovan and Anderson in Forensics, not-so-subtly sniggering at the state of Sherlock's shoes, the detective effortlessly worked out the meaning behind the empty coat. A quick chat with the presumed dead man's widow revealed that he was a businessman who, despite being heir to a massive inheritance, started his own company separate from his family. It was quite successful until six months ago when business suddenly took a nosedive and he lost all of his money. As his wife and his suicide note explained, he knew that his business failures did nothing to affect his inheritance, so he concluded that he was worth more to his family dead. The wife and four kids never heard from him again, and for all intents and purposes he had disappeared.  
  
Sherlock quickly debunked the idea of suicide, one glance at the note he left behind was more than enough for him. The handwriting was clear and steady, exhibiting none of the stress and anguish someone on the cusp of taking their own life would have. His hand didn't shake once. At the same time, his conclusion was sound and the only solution for a man who wanted to die and live on was to fake his death. All it would take was the secrecy of one member of his wealthy family and a decent plastic surgeon, and he could benefit his progeny and carry on in an obscure existence.  
  
After being shown a picture of the not-dead man, Sherlock claimed to know exactly who it was. Without another word, he made a beeline for the nearest street and hopped in a cab, leaving John behind. This wasn't exactly uncommon for Sherlock, but it never ceased to irk John when he did this. After promising Lestrade that they'd be in touch, John hailed a cab of his own back to Baker Street.  
  
The doctor was bewildered all over again walking into the flat. It was still in shambles as a result of Sherlock's earlier tantrum. All because a couple of people shorter than a pencil decided to be a little mischievous and run off with Sherlock’s _shoelaces_. Shaking his head at the ridiculousness of it all, John stooped to at least _begin_ to straighten out the papers that nearly covered the floor of the entire main room.  
  
As it so happened, the troublemakers who stood shorter than a pencil weren’t too far from where John was standing, peeking out at him from their hiding spot by the couch. Sam and Dean were on their fourth supply run that day, their bags overflowing with spoils. They hadn’t had time to run for cover when John came in, but at least it was looking like their slip up wasn’t going to bite them in the ass.  
  
“Told you this was a bad idea,” Sam hissed at Dean, watching John lift a pile of paper into the air that weighed more than the pair of them together.  
  
Dean rolled his eyes. “Him? He’s _harmless,_ ” he said. “Sherlock is the one we have to worry about.”  
  
“But--” Sam’s protest cut off in shock when Dean pushed himself away from the side of the couch and went to stroll out into the open. It was too late for Sam to dive forward and grab his arm, and all he could do was watch Dean greet what was, to them, a giant.  
  
“What’s the lowdown, doc? Sherlock find a good case this time?”  
  
" _Jesus Chr--!_ "   
  


[ ](http://sta.sh/017knfmj5nxc)

[Artwork by mogadeer!](http://mogadeer.tumblr.com/)  
  
  
It was all John could do to _not_ jump to his feet in surprise at the sight of Dean sauntering across the floor. Not only was his appearance unexpected, but something about seeing the tiny man from the _floor_ rather than a higher surface made John's heart race all the faster.  
  
"It, ah. Case, yes, the um." Clearing his throat, John lowered himself to sit carefully on the floor, distancing himself a bit from Dean. It didn't help him feel any less dangerous to the smaller man, but at least he knew he wouldn't fall over. "Seemed pretty promising, but, didn't take too long at all once, er, all the information… Sorry, um, I just. Wasn't expecting you on-on the floor…"  
  
Dean arched an eyebrow at John’s flummoxed appearance, and put his hands on his hips, refusing to let on to how unsettled he was, standing down on the ground. He held onto his determination that showing fear was the biggest weakness in a world that outsized them almost twenty times.  
  
“What were you expecting?” Dean queried John, wondering. “We had to be down on the floor to get the shoelaces last night in the first place, and it’s not easy to find supplies on counters and shelves. People pay attention to what’s up there, but couldn’t care less about down here.” He held out his arms and rotated in place for effect.  
  
Sam stuck his head out from where he was standing by the couch. “Which, by the way, was all _his_ idea!” he called out.  
  
“Dude!” Dean said, looking offended at the betrayal.  
  
John blinked as the younger of the tiny brothers made his presence known as well. While John's worry for their safety didn't lessen, something about knowing that they were out there _together_ made him feel a little better about the whole affair, and it was good to see Sam was doing better than earlier in the week.  
  
"Well, at least no one was out and about last night. I-I don't… If I hadn't seen you…" Rather than follow _that_ particularly grisly train of thought, John redirected. "Anyway, er, what are you two doing out here and… down there in the middle of the day?" he asked, more curious than accusatory.  
  
Sam rubbed at the back of his neck as he stepped fully out from behind the couch. There was no use staying hidden and pretending that John didn’t know where they were, but the tingle on his neck was as unsettling as ever, knowing that someone big enough to snatch them both up off the ground together was within arm’s reach.  
  
“We figured we’d take advantage and grab some new supplies,” Sam told John truthfully.  
  
“Sam!” Dean elbowed Sam in the arm, trying to make him shut up.  
  
“Watch it, jerk!” Sam twisted out of the way, sending Dean off balance.  
  
“You’re not supposed to tell him _everything,_ bitch!” Dean complained, glancing nervously over his shoulder at John. He might talk big, but letting a human in on their secrets was dangerous, even with a friendly human.  
  
"Guys, guys," John interrupted, opening one hand in a calming gesture. He at least knew better than to reach for them. His brow quirked at the smaller men's bickering. The shoving, the name-calling… _They really are brothers,_ he mused with a grin.  
  
"Take it easy, I didn't mean anything by it," the doctor assured. Obviously this was information that John was never meant to know, but he hoped they were aware that he would never use any of it against them. "Erm, find anything good? Or am I not allowed to know that either?"  
  
Dean was about to tell John off to mind his own business, his back stiff from seeing the huge hand open up and knowing he could end up inside, but he caught Sam’s hopeful look from the corner of his eye. This was the first human that had treated them as people since their curse. He sighed. “ _Fine,_ you can tell him. But _none_ of this goes to Sherlock.” He eyed Sam and John up equally, his stern demeanor unflinching.  
  
Sam rolled his eyes. “ _Whatever_ , dude. Like I’m looking to talk to him anytime soon.” He shifted his satchel so it was hanging in front, and opened it up. “We don’t take anything important,” he assured John, his eyes wide with the hopes that the human wouldn’t mind. “Just stuff that comes in handy for us, like tinfoil for cups or plates.”  
  
Nudging some paper clips aside, Sam showed the leftover fabric from a part of the couch that was out of sight, and the sheafs of tinfoil he had tucked underneath. The bag was an eclectic mix, and their storage area on the right side of the fireplace was just as bad. Along with Sherlock’s shoelaces, they snuck away with any blocks of wood they could find, as much fabric as possible, any possible containers, paper clips that could be twisted into any useful shape, along with everything else that they hadn’t found a use for. They couldn’t just run out to the store like John and Sherlock.  
  
Sam looked up at John when he had displayed what was in his bag. “That’s why we wait until night or _this,_ ” he said with a gesture at the mess around them. “It’s dangerous if anyone knows what we take, since they could set traps where it’s kept, and it’s not easy to get out of a trap at this size.”  
  
John hummed thoughtfully as he peered into Sam's tiny satchel, trying his best to only lean his head forward. After clearly putting off Dean, which was proving to be the least difficult of tasks, John was paying attention to his every _breath_. He nearly forgot how intimidating his smallest motion could be to the brothers, and he made a note to be more mindful of that.  
  
"That's resourceful of you," he commented, glancing around. Even now, knowing Sam and Dean had probably had a field day scavenging through the mess, John could hardly tell that anything had been disturbed. "Well, I guess cleaning up would sort of ruin the endeavor then, eh?"  
  
He smiled at the brothers, wondering if he should just head upstairs and let them carry on. Then again, perhaps it would be better if he remained in the flat, just in case Sherlock came home unexpectedly. He supposed it wouldn't hurt to ask.  
  
"Should I, ah, leave you to it?"  
  
“Do whatever you want, we’re done here.” Dean waved a hand over his head as he turned on his heel, dismissing their talk with the human as quickly as it had begun. He hadn’t planned on letting John know so much about what they did during the day, but John wasn’t so bad. It felt like they had someone to confide in.  
  
Sam was swiftly left behind, and he stuffed his supplies back in his satchel as quickly as he could. “Thanks!” he called up to John, rubbing at the back of his neck distractedly. He had to run to catch up to Dean, only reaching him as he passed under the couch, getting out of sight so they could get back into the walls without John knowing where their entrances were.   
  
“He’s not so bad,” Sam said, unconsciously echoing Dean's thoughts from before as he thought back to when John had checked his chest for injuries.   
  
“Too bad his roommate leaves much to be desired,” Dean said gruffly. “I'm sorry. _Flatmate_. Otherwise we might not have to stay out of sight all the time.”  
  
To the brothers, it didn’t feel quite natural, staying in the walls and in the dark. It was a necessity, one they’d learned the truth of long before coming to live at Baker Street, but they’d rather be on the road. Helping their dad fight monsters, or going off to college to get a degree. Not this limbo of survival.  
  
“C’mon, we can sort everything we’ve got stored now. Plenty of new supplies to go through.”  
  
John waited a few extra minutes after he watched Sam and Dean leave, until he was sure they were gone and slowly rose to his feet. He still shuddered at the thought of viewing the brothers from such a steep angle. John would feel incredibly imposing and terrifying, and then Sam would _really_ have reason to rub his neck.  
  
Absently, John hoped that particular quirk of Sam's wasn't in response to any kind of pain that he was keeping to himself. He worried that his continued involvement in their lives might be the cause of stiffness or ache, and Sam was simply too polite to point it out.  
  
There was no point in dwelling on the little details now that the brothers were gone. John sighed and continued straightening up the room. This time, as he stacked the papers back up and moved furniture and knick-knacks back to their spots, he noticed things lying about on the floor that could easily be of use to someone four inches tall or less. Loose carpet threads, broken-off pencil tips, discarded twist ties… John briefly thought of gathering these things for Sam and Dean since it seemed he'd accidentally discouraged them from continuing their raid.   
  
He shot that idea down right away, knowing it wouldn't work for multiple reasons. For one, he had no idea where he would leave such things where the brothers could easily find them. For another, it would certainly arouse suspicion in Sherlock, who so far didn't seem to suspect that their tiny flatmates secretly visited the doctor quite often nowadays. Plus, they had shown trepidation in telling him what exactly they scavenged, for fear that he, or at least _someone_ would take advantage and trap them. John decided he'd best not even put on the _appearance_ of ill will.  
  
The main room was clean by the time Sherlock made his way back to the flat. He carried a small, mostly empty plastic bag, along with a miffed expression that hadn't left his eyes since that morning.  
  
"Find the dead man?" John queried, finally settling into his chair to relax a bit.  
  
"Obviously," scoffed Sherlock, tossing the bag onto the coffee table and throwing off his coat. "Child's play. He's a part of my homeless network."  
  
"Of course he is." It still baffled John how Sherlock had managed to get seemingly all of London's homeless under his employ. He understood the reasoning well enough; they were people who went ignored more often than not, and ignored people were underestimated.   
  
By everyone but Sherlock, it seemed. They would report things they'd heard to him, or he would have them band together to find something or someone. Whatever job Sherlock set them on, it would be done in no time at all.  
  
"Even through all the plastic surgery, which is evident by his subtle scarring patterns, he's got a very distinctive hair color. Can't exactly dye it regularly in his current position. I explained to him what happened this morning and that his family was now aware of his status. I left him to decide how he'd like to proceed."  
  
"And you stopped by the drugstore?" John inferred.   
  
Sherlock's scowl deepened and he dropped onto the couch, tearing at the twine keeping his shoes together. “ _Shoelaces,_ ” he seethed.  
  
John's brow shot up and he let out a dry chuckle. "Y’know, that's probably not going to help."  
  
Sherlock grunted in response, and that was the most John got out of him for the rest of the day.  
  


* * *

  
For Sam and Dean, things started to settle back into a routine. They continued to venture out for food and supplies, but their storage room had more than ever, practically overflowing. Dean had to break down and keep some of the extra paperclips in their main room where he worked, and busied himself straightening them out from the coiled position they came in.  
  
Of course, the game wasn't over with Sherlock, and Dean wasn't one to easily forgive or forget the sight of Sam curled into a forlorn ball, though Sam certainly seemed willing to. He was far more easygoing than Dean when it came to things like that.  
  
Dean spent the rest of the afternoon organizing their overflow, while Sam slipped off to the kitchen to see if he could get something more filling than a tea biscuit for their dinner that night. There was still a full biscuit left, but the taste had grown old a few days into eating them for breakfast, lunch and dinner.  
  
Sam's trip was less than fruitful, with both humans around, so they ended up sharing a bit of biscuit sliced off, a serving the size of their hand each. Scarce pickings meant they couldn't eat their fill, but they tried to keep their energy up morning and night as much as possible, knowing those times were usually the busiest as they were more likely to find the humans asleep or out of the flat.  
  
Most times.  
  
Dean waited until Sherlock was fast asleep in his room for his second night gathering up all the shoelaces. The pile in the storage room doubled in size, and Sam shook his head, wondering what they were going to do with any _more_ laces Dean came home with.  
  
He was far from done with the human, after all.  
  


* * *

  
It honestly shouldn't have been a surprise that all of Sherlock's newly purchased shoelaces not-so-mysteriously vanished overnight, but the detective was just as enraged. He gave up on purchasing more laces after that, resorting to Mrs. Hudson's roll of twine which he decided to keep since she was out of town visiting family for a few days.  
  
That is not to say that his torment ended. Sherlock tried everything to keep his makeshift fasteners, from removing the twine laces and hiding them to keeping his shoes up on a high shelf at night. Every time, they would be gone by morning, the laces missing from each and every pair of shoes Sherlock owned-- even an old pair of trainers he never wore!   
  
Finally, he convinced John to lend him the laces from his boots as an experiment. John's shoelaces remained untouched the entire time, and by then Sherlock had begun to suspect that it wasn't about the shoelaces themselves.  
  
This was proven when John woke up the next morning to find his laces neatly bundled on his nightstand.  
  
Sherlock was absolutely _fuming_ at this development, now fully assured that this was a personal jab at _him_. He spent nearly the entire day going back and forth between ranting and raving about it and silently stewing.  
  
"What have I ever done to _them?!_ ” he exploded that evening after nearly two hours of silence. He was curled into an angry ball in his armchair.  
  
John shot him a look, tilting down his laptop screen. "It may have something to do with you _trapping_ them in jars, Sherlock."  
  
"I meant LATELY!" With a growl, Sherlock jumped to his feet and stormed down the hall to his bedroom, thoroughly done for the day it would seem.  
  
John sighed, massaging his temple as he squinted at his computer. This entire situation was quite funny in the beginning, until it started driving Sherlock mad and _he_ started grating on John's nerves.  
  
Well, more than usual.  
  
The doctor hadn't had much interaction with Sam or Dean through all this, but at this point he was almost desperate for another talk with them. Not quite desperate enough to actively seek them out, but enough to hope he'd run into them soon. Preferably before Sherlock started sleeping with his shoes clutched to his chest.  
  
Unfortunately, John was not going to get his wish. At least, not the way he wanted to.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Things are starting to grow heated between Dean and Sherlock, but John continues talking to the brothers amicably enough.
> 
> **Next:** April 12 th 2017 at 9pm
> 
> Comments and kudos are love!


	11. Descent into Madness

After watching Sherlock's steady decline throughout the week from the safety of the walls, Dean was assured of his success. Not only had he gotten revenge for being trapped in jars, he'd also ground into Sherlock that they weren't to be messed with. Getting help from John would do no good. All they had to do was return the shoelaces Sherlock borrowed from John to where they belonged, paying him back for his help a little at a time. They owed John.  
  
Hiding the laces wouldn’t do Sherlock any good, either. Each time he tried, Dean would track them down, drawn by his own mysterious knack and taking them from the strangest spots Sherlock found to squirrel them away.  
  
Internally, Dean declared his ‘game’ at its peak when Sherlock stormed into his room.  
  
John didn't see either brother around that night, not even a shadow. If only he knew their home was a mere foot away from where he sat in his armchair at night, working away on his laptop, the next day's events might have been averted.  
  
Bright and early, Dean found himself a high enough shelf where Sherlock wouldn't be able to grab him and he would have enough time to get into the walls if anything went wrong. With one of the original shoelaces in hand, he gave Sherlock his biggest, fakest smile and said brightly, “Missin’ something?”  
  
Sherlock was walking into the main room with heavy, exhausted steps, a mug of tea in one hand, when Dean's voice rang out from above. He found the arrogant little man standing on the top shelf of a bookcase and narrowed his eyes at what Dean had apparently come to wave around in Sherlock's face.  
  
"You," the detective growled. He stomped across the room, setting down his mug on the table with a _thud_ as he passed by, and rounded on the bookshelf that Dean had claimed as his perch. "What do you want? Haven't you tormented me enough?"  
  
Dean bounded an inch back from the edge of the shelf, warily watching for any snatches to come his way. He was ready to run at a moment’s notice and only a few steps away from his exit. The shoelace was draped over his arms like a fancy feather boa, the ends bundled in his arms, though if he had to, he’d drop the shoelace in lieu of safety.  
  
“What, you think I’m done?” Dean shot back without missing a beat, as riled up as ever about the entire situation. “Seems Sam’s bruises are only _just_ going away. At least I’m not trying to _trap_ you or almost breaking bones with a grab! We never even heard an apology from anyone but John, and he’s not the one that owes us!”  
  
"That was _weeks ago!_ ” Sherlock groaned, his voice growing steadily louder. "An encounter that only lasted about five minutes total, and the repercussions of which _you admit_ are fading, hardly warrants nearly two weeks of pestering me nonstop! Obviously I should have found a different solution to keep you and your brother from disappearing on me, but you didn't exactly leave me with many options in that regard!"  
  
“Ah, exactly!” Dean crowed, jabbing a finger right at Sherlock. “One encounter that barely lasted _five minutes long_ could have maimed my brother or me for _life!_ You said it yourself!” He was practically shouting, a foreign sensation after years of trying to stay out of sight. Soft voices, quiet words, all forgotten in the heat of the moment.  
  
“This is barely an _annoyance,_ ” Dean continued scathingly, his voice dripping with sarcasm. “One trip to the store and it’s all better. What’s an annoyance compared to a broken arm or leg? Either of which, I might add, could cost us our _lives_ because we can’t escape a rat or can’t get out to find food that day. Imagine _starving_ or watching your brother starve because of it! I think I've _earned_ the chance to watch you squirm.”  
  
Sherlock pointed an indignant finger of his own at Dean. "I have caused you _no harm_ since that day, and I have exhibited no sign of intent to trap you or anything of the sort! You are driving me insane, and coming here now to bait me is simply immature, so just leave. Me. _Alone!_ ”  
  
Dean bristled at the finger pointing in his direction, all thoughts of running to safety gone. “It was a whole different story while _you_ were the one doing the baiting, wasn’t it? Or did you already forget about the food you left out for us? How do we know you didn’t drug the food, or were hoping to get us to warm up to you just enough to get stuck into _jars_ again?” Crossing his arms, he straightened up, as stubborn as ever.  
  
"Oh, for God's sake, that was an _experiment!_ ” Sherlock emphasized, running agitated hands through his black curls. "A perfectly _harmless_ method of measuring your food preferences." Rounding on Dean once again, Sherlock's scowl deepened. "You could not even begin to understand the level of restraint I am displaying on a daily basis! I could pin down your headquarters within _minutes_ of searching this flat, but I haven't done! And if my view of you were any lower, if I were even more heartless than I apparently am, you and your brother would be right back in those jars you're so fond of bringing up--!"  
  
"Hey!"  
  
Sherlock whirled around to find John standing in the doorway, still in a t-shirt and hastily-donned jeans, his short hair rumpled from sleep. And he was evidently less than pleased with what he was walking in on.  
  
"John," Sherlock began, his tone quiet and even. "He came just to boast and flaunt my own madness in my face--"  
  
"Save it!" John spat, crossing the room determinedly. He blew straight past Sherlock and peered up at Dean, his gaze softening a few degrees for the older Winchester. "Dean. Go and fetch your brother. Now, please. It's time we all had a talk."  
  
Red faced, Dean looked for a moment like he’d completely ignore John, but then he took a good long look at the doctor, nodded sharply in understanding, and turned on his heel. It was a sign of just how much respect Dean had for the older man, a respect he’d once harbored for Sherlock.   
  
Before things had taken a sideways turn, back when they’d slip out of the walls just long enough to help solve a case. Back when all Dean wanted was to help people, before he’d been captured. He left the shoelace behind in his hurry, a joke that between him and Sam would have gone nowhere, but with Sherlock had blown itself out of proportion.  
  
As soon as Dean left, John sank into his armchair, glaring at Sherlock until he did the same. Sherlock rolled his eyes and pointedly retrieved the abandoned shoelace from the shelf before flopping sideways into his own chair.  
  
"What are we doing?" he queried in a monotone.  
  
"Having a house meeting," John replied with a tired sigh.  
  
Sherlock gave a noncommittal hum, sinking further into the black leather while they waited.   
  
It was a good five minutes before Dean was seen again, and this time Sam was trailing behind. His younger brother was visibly yawning, one small hand covering his mouth and his hair disarrayed from being just this side of dragged out of his bed, a long night of looking for supplies clear in his exhausted slump.   
  
With John around and within reach if anything happened, they chose to stand on the fireplace, slipping out of a corner of the wallpaper that up until then had appeared stuck to the wall, and Dean brushed it down with a hand to return it to that appearance. He crossed his arms, arching an eyebrow as he looked down at both giants and Sam tried to figure out just what he’d missed during his morning nap.  
  
As Sam and Dean reappeared, John sat forward. "Fellas. As you know, things have been escalating around here, and there are obviously tensions that we're all carrying in this situation. I think it'd be best if the four of us had a chat, and hopefully we can come to a compromise and move on from here."  
  
Sam groaned. “I knew it,” he said tiredly, rubbing his eyes as he sat down to dangle his legs from the side of the fireplace. He paid no mind to the height, far less unsettled by such things compared to Dean. “You couldn’t have just left well enough alone, could you?”  
  
“ _He’s_ the one that started it!” Dean fumed. He made as though to sit down next to Sam, but paused and knelt down an inch back instead. Without knowing how the humans were going to react, he preferred some distance between himself and the edge.  
  
Sam rubbed the back of his neck, finding the soft burn more distracting than the regular tingle he got around just John. It was better than that day Sherlock had caught them, more dulled down. Either he was losing feeling there from being spotted so many times or Sherlock really wasn’t thinking of grabbing them, and that might be an important difference for Sam to figure out if he could.  
  
“Alright,” Sam said, stifling another yawn into his tan jacket sleeve. “We’re here. Shoot.”  
  
Briefly, John's mind wandered to Sam's seemingly habitual neck-rubbing. With John and Sherlock both seated (the latter with his legs hanging childishly over the arm), there shouldn't have been nearly as much strain on the kid's neck as their other encounters, but John reminded himself that that was beside the point.  
  
"Well, obviously you two still take issue with the way Sherlock treated you when we all first met," John pointed out. "Which is totally fair, I'll admit. But frankly, the way you've been dealing with it is driving him mad, and I have to live with him. So we should probably start there."  
  
“Of course we _take issue_ with the way we met,” Dean said, wholly offended. “We helped out on cases when you overlooked important details, and the thanks we got was--!”  
  
Sam cut him off with a gesture, staring at Dean with steely eyes. “Dean, not helping.” When Dean went to open his mouth again, Sam held up a finger. “Ah ah,” he said insistently. “This time, _I’ll_ do the talking.”  
  
Turning back to face John while Dean silently fumed behind him, Sam shot one look at Sherlock before giving the doctor his full attention. “All that started out because of what I did with the food, didn’t it?” he asked knowingly. “I just wanted to let Sherlock know we’re not about to take handouts like some animals or _pets._ And the shoelaces were a prank. One that escalated more than it should have.” He shifted uneasily in his seat, trying to stay focused. “It’s not easy for us to just _forget_ about being stuffed in jars. A-after what we went through.” He was starting to lose it, and the stutter gave him away. Sam knew he should have just stayed on Dean’s pranks. “Y-you can’t understand what it’s _like_ , being this size.”  
  
"All I ever wanted to _do_ was understand!" Sherlock blurted.  
  
"Sherlock…" John warned, shooting the detective a look.  
  
After a deep breath to compose himself, Sherlock amended, "I would like to explain myself."  
  
John glanced at Sam and Dean, then furrowed his brow at Sherlock. "Alright, but keep it short and shut up when I tell you to."  
  
"Fine." With a huff, Sherlock righted himself in his chair, leaning back and steepling his fingers below his chin as he regarded the smaller men on the mantle.  
  
"You've seen me work," he began. "All I need is a glance at a person and I can tell you their entire life in seconds, using only my powers of observation. But you two… When I saw you, I knew three things. One, you were brothers, I knew that long before either of you mentioned it. You were a perfect team, each smoothly in sync with the other; that suggests complete trust, the kind only felt through lifelong contact. Could be lovers who happened to know each other all their lives, but brother was far more likely. Two, you lived somewhere in this flat, had been for quite some time. The dust and sawdust residue in your clothes and especially in your shoes made that fairly obvious."  
  
"I did say _short_ ," John reminded Sherlock.  
  
"And _third_ ," Sherlock continued, "you were utterly impossible. It's a simple fact that nature cannot just conjure up a human being in such a drastic miniature, and have that person remain entirely functional and sentient. But you _are_ , you have to acknowledge how incredible your very existence is. So when I saw you, I _needed_ to understand the mechanics, the chemistry of it all.  
  
"Obviously, you were frightened of me right from the off. I didn't think anything I did in the moment would have changed that fact, so I acted purely on the assumption that doing what I did would be for the long-term benefit. And I want it known that _keeping_ you after I learned what I wanted to know never crossed my mind for a second."  
  
Sam threaded his fingers together to keep from fidgeting. “You have to understand that’s kind of hard to trust, from our perspective,” he said softly. He’d known of Sherlock’s prowess as a detective for a long time, but having it turned around on them was the last thing Sam had ever expected.  
  
“Sam…” Dean said warningly. “You don’t have to tell him anything.”  
  
Sam glanced back, and an understanding look passed between them. “Maybe it’s _time_ we told someone else,” Sam said, knowing what Dean was talking about. “We can’t do this on our own.”  
  
Dean narrowed his eyes at Sherlock. “We did fine for _years._ ”  
  
“Because we had _help,_ ” Sam reminded him. “And they still help us if we need it.”  
  
He turned to face Sherlock. “You’re right. We shouldn’t exist. Scientifically, at least. It’s been some time since I could do research of my own, but I’ve read about it in the past. Thing is, we do, and others do just like us. I can’t speak for them, but for us… we’re not _supposed_ to be like this. What you see is the result of a curse, cast on us by a witch when we were kids.”  
  
Sherlock's eyes widened at the information being thrown at him. For one thing, there was a clear confirmation of the existence of others their size. He had suspected as much, but knowing it to be true was another matter entirely. How many were there? Where did they all live? How did they keep in contact with one another?  
  
Of course, not many questions had run through Sherlock's overactive mind when the curse was mentioned. Everything stood still in the detective's head in that moment, and he glanced at John for some kind of affirmation. Before the doctor could do anything, however, Sherlock scoffed.  
  
"Hilarious," he snipped, his voice dripping with sarcasm. "It's so _very_ flattering that you think I'd believe that."  
  
"Um, no, I'm pretty sure he's telling the truth," John put in, his own gaze flicking between Sam and Sherlock. He was still taken aback that the kid had brought that up to Sherlock, but he supposed that was the entire purpose of the house meeting. To get things out in the open.  
  
Sherlock rolled his eyes at his flatmate. "Right, and how would _you_ know that?"  
  
John pursed his lips. Sherlock's head tilted as he put two and two together, giving John a flat look. "You've been talking to them, haven't you?"  
  
John shrugged, not so much a dismissal of the inference, but rather a silent _They do what they want…_  
  
“Right.” Sam leaned forward, pushing through that. “Doesn’t matter. We can prove it.”  
  
Dean gave him a quick look. “What are you talking…”  
  
Sam closed his eyes, and Dean trailed off into silence as he recited a familiar stream of words. “November 2nd, 1983. Lawrence, Kansas. There was a housefire that night. Three survivors; John Winchester and his two children. Dean Winchester, four years old, and _Sam_ Winchester, at only six months. One fatality, Mary Winchester. Our mom _died_ in the fire that night, and she was as human as we used to be. Like our dad still is.” His eyes were a little wet when they opened back up. It was hard to call up such painful recollections, and he had a feeling the day wasn’t going to get easier.  
  
Now it was John's turn to be astonished by what he was hearing. All those details were impossible to dispute, and more than hard to listen to. From the acknowledgement of a last name to the death of their mother, and the implication of permanent separation from their father… John could swear he could physically _feel_ a cold hand clenching around his heart.  
  
Sherlock, on the other hand, digested this new information as just that: information. Clearly Sam knew what he was talking about, though some parts of his story were difficult to swallow.  
  
"Let's assume I believe you, about this _witch_ ," Sherlock proposed, straightening his back. "How exactly did you make it to England, all the way from America? Were you here when she… _cursed_ you, or--?"  
  
"Sherlock, this isn't an interrogation," John interrupted. "We're here to figure out how to coexist peacefully, not probe them incessantly about their past."  
  
Sam shot John a grateful look, his hands clenched tight from nerves. He wasn't used to being around anyone but Dean all day, and being interrogated by a giant had him trembling, though he did his best to hide it at the demanding questions.  
  
“I'm not telling you this to make small talk,” Sam said, trying to compose himself outwardly. “We haven't even told anyone here that's our size that we used to be human. Just in case-- they rejected us. We had nowhere else to go.”  
  
He took another breath to steady his nerves, and Dean put a hand on his shoulder for support. Sam tried to draw from the endless well of energy Dean seemed to have at his disposal, always ready to sling sass at Sherlock.  
  
“I'm not against telling you more, but you have to give us something in return. We can't live in fear, so either you both say you'll leave us be, or we leave the flat for good right after this talk.”  
  
"Of course, yeah," John nodded without hesitation. "You have my word."  
  
After a pause that lasted entirely too long, John sighed and turned to Sherlock. He was staring thoughtfully at the Winchesters, as though trying to puzzle them out on his own. "Sherlock," John pressed.  
  
"Hmm?" The detective spared a glance at John, then back at the brothers as he seemed to recall a question or demand or something of the sort. "Oh, right. Yes, yes, obviously."  
  
John sighed. "I keep telling you, not everything is as obvious as you think it is." Addressing the brothers once again, John offered a reassuring smile. "God forbid, if any danger does come to you, it won't be from us."  
  
“Thanks.” Sam wrestled with himself for a moment. “Dean won’t take any more shoelaces, right?” He gave Dean a _look_.  
  
Dean held up his hands and wiggled his fingers to show his innocence. “Won’t lay a finger on them,” he said.  
  
“Good.” Sam raked both hands through his hair, still waking up from being unceremoniously hauled out of bed just moments before the meeting. He tried to work through his fuzzy-headed thoughts. “I guess that’s really it, unless you had more to add?” he asked expectantly. “Or any questions?”  
  
John had loads of questions, hundreds even, but this was hardly the time or place for them and even Sherlock seemed aware of that. John was certain the detective had at least twice as many questions as he did.  
  
"Yeah, we're good," John agreed with a nod. "Just, ah. You're always welcome, this is as much your flat as it is ours. And if you wish to carry on helping with cases, we wouldn't be averse. Whatever you're comfortable with." That said, John turned to his flatmate. "Sherlock, anything to add?"  
  
"I'd like the _rest_ back, thanks," said the detective with a pointed look at Dean as he dangled the shoelaces the elder Winchester had been taunting him with from his fingers. "At least the original laces you stole. Keep the others, I'm sure you'll find _some_ use for them."  
  
Dean’s jaw firmed, and he jumped to his feet. “You’ll get what I give--"  
  
Sam hopped up, stepping away from the edge to get his hands on Dean’s shoulders and hold him back from the temptation of jumping off the mantle to teach Sherlock a lesson. “They’ll be in the kitchen when you wake up!” Sam said, interceding. “We need time to gather them up again.”  
  
Dean didn’t budge when Sam tried to push him towards the entrance back into the walls. “Dean, c’mon,” Sam hissed. “Chill out already.”  
  
Dean glared at Sherlock. “Fine,” he said, stiffening his shoulders. “We’ll give back your shoelaces. They ain’t as useful as the twine, anyway.”  
  
"Glad I could be of help," Sherlock quipped with a faint smirk.  
  
John rolled his eyes and said, "Alright, be nice." The detective threw up his hands in mock surrender and sat back in his chair, crossing his arms.  
  
"Is there anything else you want from _us?_ " John added, his focus back on the Winchesters. "Questions, anything to add?"  
  
Sam looked at Dean, then shook his head a negative. “We’ve been here long enough to know the routine,” he said. To keep the slight burn on the back of his neck from becoming a distraction, he hooked both hands behind his neck and stretched his arms out.  
  
“If you have a hard time believing us, look up that date I gave you. Believe me, we couldn't make this up if we tried.” Sam hesitated for a moment. “Are you sure you don't mind us here? We can always find somewhere else to go. It wouldn't be the first time.”  
  
"Absolutely not," said John unequivocally. "We're all just trying to survive, you two especially. To hell with the fact that we happen to be bigger, it shouldn't be up to _us_ to decide what _you_ do. So long as you feel safe, consider yourselves part of the flat share."  
  
"Minus the rent," Sherlock mumbled, giving John a look that only the doctor would be able to interpret as remotely playful.  
  
John smirked. "Yeah, _obviously_ , minus the rent."  
  
“All right…” Sam said slowly, blinking in confusion at the words that Sherlock and John passed between them, then deciding to go on like he understood what had happened. “We'll just go then. See ya.”  
  
Sam gripped Dean's arm firmly, pushing him ahead. “I better not get dragged out of bed over this again!” he griped quietly as he propelled Dean towards the wall.  
  
Dean tried to give Sam a winning smile, but Sam didn't budge an inch, pushing him past the wallpaper with his greater strength.  
  
“Ah, c'mon!” Dean complained. “It's not my fault he can't take a little prank.”  
  
Out of sight of the living room and the two large sets of eyes, Sam buried his head in his hands. “We're just lucky they don't mind us living here,” he moaned. “I'm going back to bed. Wake me if anything _important_ happens.”  
  
Sam pushed past Dean. Their home was only a minute’s walk and a short climb away, and when he got there he fell face first into his nest of fabric.  
  


* * *

  
John let out a long breath after the brothers, the _Winchesters_ as he now knew them, disappeared with hardly a trace of their being there at all. He allowed himself to relax back into his armchair, his fatigue catching up with him now that he wasn't wound up.  
  
" _Well,_ that was informative," Sherlock commented, jumping out of his chair to retrieve the half-cold mug of tea he'd abandoned on the table. John scoffed as he watched the detective take a good long drag from the cup.  
  
"Glad you learnt something," muttered John as he worked up the energy to get up and pour his own cuppa. A moment of semi-awkward silence passed between the humans, which went unbroken until a thought struck John while he was waiting for the tea to steep.  
  
"We have to be careful with them," he reminded Sherlock. "Everything we do matters, affects them somehow. We need to be responsible."  
  
Sherlock hummed in agreement, kicking back the last of his tea. He couldn't help glancing at the mantle in thinly veiled amazement. He wouldn't admit it, but that conversation had shaken his very definition of reality.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Dean and Sherlock's fight comes to a head, and Sam's sleep is disturbed.
> 
> If John had come in just a few seconds later he might have found a very different scene...
> 
> **Next:** April 16 th 2017 at 9pm est
> 
> Comments and kudos are love!


	12. Sam's Knack

It was hard for Sam and Dean to just let things go back to normal after the revelations that day. The memories it brought back. Sam had never known his mother, but he remembered John Winchester like they were cursed yesterday.  
  
Dean, on the other hand, recalled both parents with a painful clarity. To clear his mind of his mother's warm voice and rippling blonde hair, and to rid his thoughts of John Winchester's stern voice scolding him, he left the small home behind as soon as he was certain Sam was fast asleep.  
  
Facedown in the fabric nest, Sam didn't look like he was about to chase anyone anywhere. His shoulders had relaxed from the tension during the conversation with John and Sherlock; Dean knew that it would always be there, hanging over Sam so long as they were talking to humans. He softened at the sight of his little brother finally relaxed. He hadn't meant for Sam to get caught up in everything that morning. It was just _teasing,_ he did it all the time with Sam and it never spiraled so far out of control before!  
  
Hoping to work off some of his excess energy from the confrontation, Dean decided it was high time to check the perimeter of the flat. Sam and Dean had declared this place their home, after all, and that meant that they guarded it from any incursion by rats. Their silver knives came in useful when it came down to a fight, and if it was a healthy animal, cooking the meat over the hot water heater resulted in some of the better food they ever got to eat, much more filling than crackers or cookies or whatever else they scrounged up for the week.  
  
This line of thought lead him back to the memory of the bacon Sam had brought home the other week, and despite himself, Dean hoped they might have more in the future. He didn't want to just accept handouts, but it was nice to imagine having friends who cared enough to look out for them again.  
  
Dean checked each of the corners of the flat, carefully inspecting every entrance he knew for any new markings. Scratches, the sign of dust being dragged by a long, scaly tail, footprints. Signs that his eyes, adjusted to the low levels of light in the walls, could see as clear as day.  
  
It took well into the evening for Dean to finish, and he arrived back at their small home to find Sam yawning his way awake, his fluffy hair a mess from sleeping all day.  
  
"Mornin,' " Sam mumbled as he shoved himself up from the ground.  
  
Dean had to laugh. "Morning? You mean night. You slept the day away!" He tossed one of Sam's extra shirts at him, managing to land it right on his head.  
  
Sam glared as he pulled the shirt down, straightening it slowly. "Because someone kept me up all night finding shoelaces," he said grumpily. "And now we have to put them back."  
  
"You'd rather I do that without you watchin' my back?" Dean asked knowingly. He knew Sam would never let him out in the open like that without backup, not if he could help it. Dean lacked Sam's ability to _know_ if he was being watched or searched out, leaving him more vulnerable when he was out there.  
  
Sam rolled his eyes. "Whatever. We doing this, or what?"  
  


* * *

  
As it happened, they didn't return _all_ the shoelaces, keeping the duplicates Sherlock had bought from the stores for future projects.   
  
And for good measure, Dean decided to hang onto the original shoelaces from the first pair of shoes he'd raided. It would make a good trophy of the time he managed to completely get under Sherlock's skin.  
  


* * *

  
John figured the brothers would want their space after the confrontation that morning, so he played it off like everything was normal. Trusting that Sherlock would know better than to make trouble while he was gone, John went to work, had lunch, chatted with his co-workers. He did so in a daze.  
  
For Sherlock's part, he grabbed John's laptop the second he was out of the house. No matter how many times the doctor changed his password, Sherlock always found his way in. The exact time and place Sam had mentioned still burned in the forefront of his mind, and he _had_ to see for himself if the lad was telling the truth.  
  
Sure enough, the detective came across a newspaper article from Lawrence, Kansas; November 2nd, 1983. Every single detail was spot-on, from the ages of the boys who survived to the occupation of their father. A picture of their mother was just underneath one of the remains of the house. Mary Winchester: young and beautiful, practically pristine. He couldn't be sure, but from the brief time he'd spent with a good look at the brothers, Sherlock suspected that Dean had inherited her eyes.  
  
A different local paper showed a picture of their father, John Winchester. Upon further research, this was one of very few mentions of him on the web. He seemed to go off the grid after the fire, and that made Sherlock wonder in earnest. Where would a man who had just endured the horrible death of his wife take his only remaining family? What would he do, how would he raise those children?  
  
Children he would only lose years later.  
  
Closing the laptop, Sherlock dwelled on this for the rest of the day, meandering about the flat doing all the things he usually did while he was thinking. Played the violin, fiddled with a Sudokube, reread _The Prince_ for the third time that year. Hours passed without him knowing, and John came home to find Sherlock reading with his back flat on the carpet, his feet propped up onto the seat of his armchair.  
  
"Glad you've had a productive day," John quipped as he hung up his coat and went to the kitchen to scrounge up some dinner, knowing better than to question Sherlock's antics.  
  


* * *

  
The next day was John's day off from the clinic, so he took advantage of his extra time and slept in. When he finally had the energy to drag himself downstairs, he found Sherlock settled at the kitchen table surrounded by each and every pair of shoes he owned, meticulously re-lacing them one by one. The pile of strings on the counter was slowly dwindling, as were the number of unlaced shoes. John had to admit it was a little mesmerizing to watch, and a little cathartic as well. It marked the end of a huge source of grief for everybody in the flat.  
  
However, when Sherlock grabbed his last pair of shoes and reached blindly for the counter, he found that he'd run out. He shot John a flat look, and the doctor had to chuckle at that. Clearly it wasn't the end of Dean Winchester's shenanigans.  
  
It wasn’t until Sherlock had stalked off with his shoes that Sam made himself known. He was naturally leery of the taller of the two humans, while with John he felt as relaxed as he could, considering the man had gone to great lengths to _avoid_ laying a hand on either brother.   
  
Sam stepped past the appliances that masked their entrance into the walls, the one that lead directly back to their home. Dean was driving him up the walls. Without a case to mull over or Sherlock to prank, he had entirely too much extra time on his hands and the result was a harried Sam, though he tried to not let it show.  
  
“S-so, John?” Sam called, a half foot back from the edge of the counter. His voice stuttered, showing his nerves that he was actually approaching a human willingly, and not on spur of the moment. He’d come to the decision that he wanted to make sure everything had gone over okay after their ‘talk.’ “Did Sherlock find his shoelaces okay?”  
  
John blinked and looked up from the paper he'd been reading when Sam's small, timid voice cut through the silence. He was honestly a little surprised to be hearing from either brother so soon.  
  
"Hey, Sam!" John greeted, turning in his chair to face the lad. "Yeah, he, heh. He found them alright. Of course, the fact that he was missing a set didn't escape his notice. Don't worry about it, though," he shrugged in an attempt to be reassuring. "As long as he has others, we won't have a repeat of last week. He'll probably buy another set sometime, but I'm sure Dean can rest assured that Sherlock is safely annoyed.  
  
"Speaking of," added John after a brief pause, "how are you and Dean? Y'know, after yesterday. Hope I didn’t throw off your sleep schedule."  
  
“Oh, ah, no.” Sam was thrown by John’s worry, and his hand twitched with the urge to brush away the tingle on the back of his neck. “We don’t really _have_ a sleep schedule we follow, not like you at least. We’re just… up when we need to be. And asleep when we have time.”  
  
Sam took a step away from the edge of the counter. “I-- I should go. I didn’t mean to interrupt anything.” His eyes fell on the paper in John’s hands, and a part of him wished he could pick it up like that and read. The part of him that had yearned for a steady school every year and dreamt of going to college one day. “I just wanted to make sure everything was okay after yesterday and I _know_ Dean won’t.”  
  
"Yeah, alright," John nodded. "Whatever you're… comfortable with, yeah? Though, honestly, you're not interrupting much, I'm afraid." Placing the paper in his lap, John leaned back in the chair.  
  
"Between you and me, I'm bored out of my skull," the doctor chuckled. "And I'm pretty sure you and Dean are the only reason Sherlock is so even right now."  
  
“Yeah?” Sam said. In spite of himself and his determination to leave the human alone, he inched closer to where John was sitting. He couldn’t hide his curiosity, and now that the excitement of their capture and the following prank war was over, it seemed safer to indulge. “He’s… even?”   
  
Sam turned the word over in his mind and considered it compared to what he’d observed between John and Sherlock in the last few months. He didn’t have as much experience as Dean with the more human side of things, since he was only ten when the curse fell on them, but he did his best to work through things on his own.  
  
“Does that have something to do with the patches he puts on?” Sam asked. “I’ve seen him with them before.”  
  
John's brow shot up, and his relaxed grin widened into a hopeful smile. Sam wasn't rushing off anymore. That was something.  
  
"Well, ah, yes and no," he answered, deciding to roll with it. "Really, what I meant was that he's not just bouncing off the walls, causing a big fuss over not having a case right this second. But those do seem to mellow him out quite a bit. They're nicotine patches, an alternative to cigarettes. He doesn't really smoke unless he's desperate, but he _says_ the patches help him think." He shrugged. "It keeps the smell off everything, and it keeps him from venturing into more… _recreational_ forms of concentration."  
  
“Recreational,” Sam repeated. “Like drugs?” _That_ he’d heard of. And cigarettes, too. He might not be the best at interacting with humans, but he picked up on the facts easy enough. “Makes sense. I never really knew anyone that smoked, though.”  
  
Most of his life was spent in various motels, so Sam was all too familiar with the lingering presence of cigarette smoke. He supposed that if he had to be cursed to live at a fraction of his height, at least he hadn’t been trapped in a place that could stink of booze and smokes, with old bedsheets and cat fur clinging to everything. 221B Baker street wasn’t the worst place to live, not by a long shot.   
  
Dean didn’t agree, but he didn’t think they should have to live anywhere like this in the first place. His heart yearned for their old lives more than anything else. The Impala. Learning how to fight with their dad and studying up on various monsters and different types of weaponry. He was a fighter, and now anyone would take one look at him and laugh. A man under four inches in height could do nothing against a full-grown human.  
  
The thought of Dean lead Sam right back where he started. “Dean likes having a case to work on,” he said with a grin, crouching on the counter to let his satchel rest on the surface. “It keeps him busy when we have to stay in.”  
  
John nodded, glancing briefly down the hall. No one ever spoke of it, but when times got rough John was always sure to have two eyes on Sherlock and his brother Mycroft on speed-dial. Luckily, those times were few and very far in between. It had been ages since the detective had given them a fright like that.  
  
"Yeah, same with Sherlock, but I'm sure you've gathered that." John gave a chuckle as a thought occurred to him. "I suppose that's why they butt heads so much. They're so different, but they're _just_ similar enough to clash."  
  
Sam winced at the reminder. “Yeah… about that. Dean’s pranks usually don’t get so far out of hand, _really,_ ” he swore. “He’ll prank me, I prank him back… things escalate until we call a truce and a few years later it starts all over again.”  
  
With things so peaceful, Sam decided to let his guard down a little, and sat down next to his satchel, briefly rubbing at his neck before settling. The marble countertop wasn’t the most comfortable, but Sam was used to sitting on hard surfaces. The last time he’d sat in a chair made for his size and not cobbled together out of wood blocks and fabric scraps by Dean was over a decade ago, and he could barely remember the feeling.  
  
“Dean’s pretty hard headed when he gets going,” Sam admitted. “I’m surprised you got him to stop arguing with Sherlock long enough to get me from… our place.” He flushed a little, knowing he should avoid mentioning where they lived at all times. It was where they were at their most vulnerable.  
  
"Okay, er… Sam?" John sighed, leaning forward. He had to know once and for all what was up with the younger Winchester's neck. Finally, there was nothing else going on to distract him.  
  
"Sorry, quick subject change, but. Well, I can't help but notice you seem to rub your neck quite a bit when you're around me, and I just worry that given our… height difference, that perhaps having to look up more often is putting a strain on your neck. Again, sorry if this is blunt, but y’know, I'm a doctor. If you're in pain, I'd rather find a solution than let you go on hurting."  
  
If anything, Sam turned redder. He stilled his hand to keep it from going back to his neck, feeling uneasy with his strange knack being pointed out. It was one thing to have his brother know about it, they had no choice but to use any ability of theirs for survival. Other humans might not see it the same way. Especially _hunters_ like their dad.  
  
A psychic ability like his, where he could _feel_ if he was being watched whether he saw the person or not, was made for survival. So was Dean’s, able to track down any food or supplies that they needed-- _Or Sherlock’s shoelaces,_ Sam remembered ruefully, as a few of the times Dean had snitched them they’d been placed into odd hiding places.  
  
“I-- I’m not in pain,” Sam explained truthfully. “Not with you, at least. It just-- _itches_ if you’re looking at me, and I’m still getting used to it. You’re not as bad as Sherlock, though. He kind of burns when he sees me. I think from how intent he always is.”  
  
John's brow pinched in concern as Sam seemed to be reacting in embarrassment, and it deepened into a thoughtful frown after the lad's explanation. What Sam was describing wasn't a common sensation for humans, which caught the doctor by surprise since he knew for certain that before they'd been… altered, they'd been just as human as he was. Unless--  
  
"That's a part of the curse, isn't it?" John blurted before he could catch himself. Then it was his turn to flush, staring at his lap where his hands were folding and unfolding themselves over his forgotten newspaper.  
  
"Which is none of my business," he amended at length, refraining from glancing back at Sam. "Is there, ah, anything I can do to make you more comfortable? Or Dean, if I affect him the same way I do you."  
  
Sam had to smile. “We think it's part of the curse, yes,” he confirmed, seeing no reason to hide that fact. John had already guessed it on his own. “I never felt anything like this when I was a kid. It's why I'm always lookout when we're together. Dean's ability is… a little different.”  
  
He noticed that John was trying to avoid looking at him, and didn't want the man to worry so much about it. “It doesn't hurt,” Sam explained, “at least not from you, so don't worry if you're looking at me. Sherlock can get a little sharp, but he's usually preoccupied with Dean. And the most you'll manage if you stare at Dean is pissing him off, as I'm sure you've noticed.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Things return to normal.... well, _mostly_ normal
> 
> **Next:** April 19 th 2017 at 9pm est
> 
> Comments and kudos are love!


	13. Pathways Converge

John managed a chuckle at the reminder of Dean's disposition when it came to interacting with Sherlock and himself. The detective especially put the elder Winchester off, but he had that effect on a lot of people.  
  
Taking Sam's reassurance to heart, John took a second to work up his nerve before he looked back at Sam. It wouldn't be easy for him to simply stop worrying, given that evidently something as simple as _looking_ at Sam could affect him. He practically felt obligated to worry, but John trusted the lad's judgement and knowledge of his own sense, however bizarre it may be.  
  
"It, uh, sounds like you and Dean were fairly young when the curse hit, yeah?" John inferred. Though it was still mind-blowing to think that somehow, there was enough magic in the world to drastically change the young Winchesters' lives, the idea of them having to deal with their lost height as _children_ was almost unthinkable. In the few bits and pieces John recalled from previous conversations with the smaller men, Sam at least seemed to mainly recall the human side of things from his early childhood. It was hard for John, who was _not_ the world's only consulting detective, to draw any other conclusion.  
  
Sam nodded, confirming John’s assumption. “I’d just turned ten about a month before it happened,” he said, feeling an inexplicable weight lifted from his shoulders as he shared something that before now, no one but Dean knew, not even their adopted family. Dean wasn’t one for talking about it much if he didn’t have to.  
  
“Dad used to travel from town to town, taking jobs and helping people out.” Sam stared at the countertop, his memories from that time all crowding in at once. “I’d sit in the back of the Impala and go through the maps, plotting out other paths we could use if anything came up. Dean mostly just listened to music. Whenever Dad was on a job, he’d set us up with a room at the motel and sometimes enroll us in the nearby school if we were in town long enough for classes. But this time… something else found us.  
  
“All I remember is how strange it was that she was just standing in our room, right next to the deadbolt holding the door shut. Then Dean charged at her, and she never put a hand on him but he was slammed into the wall. She ignored him, and after that there was just a bright flash of light… and nothing.” Sam looked back up at John. “We woke up a week later, stuck in a hexbag together.”  
  
Even though he only understood about half of what Sam was telling him, John knew a kidnapping when he heard one, and for Sam to endure it at the tender age of _ten_ … John swallowed past the lump forming in his throat.  
  
"That's terrible," he remarked, holding Sam's gaze. All discomfort and worry about the little fellow's knack was forgotten in favor of offering support. Never mind that John's main source of information about witches came from _Harry Potter_ , and even then his knowledge was extremely limited. "It's a wonder you and your brother escaped."  
  
Sam nodded. “Turns out, the witch ended up being the _least_ of our problems.” He shifted where he was sitting so his feet were curled under him, and pulled his silver knife out of his jacket. “She didn’t bother searching us and taking away our weapons, and Dean made us these knives just a few months back, his as a test run and mine for my birthday. They’re silver, and Dean made them so we’d have something to defend ourselves if any shapeshifters tried to take us away. One of the few weapons that work against them, in fact.”  
  
Brushing a hand over the familiar blade helped Sam focus himself. It had been by his side ever since their curse, a reminder that Dean was always there for him. “Dean cut us an opening, and we got out. She wasn’t in the room, and we climbed down the cord of the alarm clock. First time I’ve ever seen Dean overcome his fear of heights, and he did it for me.”  
  
Sam could remember that day like it was yesterday. Waking up, hot and stifled in the dark bag. Feeling Dean to the side, slowly assessing their prison by brushing his hands over the fabric. It was the first answer for someone who’d lost their sight. Feel your way around. Listen close for an escape. Rely on all other senses, don’t let blindness be the cause of your death. Back then their vision had been no better than any other humans.’  
  
“We got away, and we tried to find someone who could help us track our dad down. He had to be searching for us, Dean said he was hunting the witch when we got caught. But it turns out witches and shapeshifters aren’t the only monsters out there in the dark. Humans can be just as bad.”  
  
Sam grew quiet. He could remember the relief after their escape, and the desperation to find their dad. Waking up to a world that soared over their heads was bad on its own. How could they know if they were even in the right world? Sam had read up on strange disappearances like in the Bermuda Triangle. Anything was possible, but eventually they were forced to accept that the world hadn’t changed; _they_ were the ones unsuitable to live there anymore.  
  
“They put us in a cage,” Sam said quietly as he thought of the humans they’d gone to for help. “Some of them didn’t even acknowledge when we talked, they just acted like we were some kind of… parrot or something. And then they shipped us overseas before we could find a way out, and sold us to the highest bidder. To be _pets._ ”  
  
One by one, questions popped up in John's mind. What were shapeshifters? What did silver have to do with anything?  A part of John was ready to dismiss the notion of _monsters_ altogether, insisting that they didn't and couldn't exist. And yet, there was Sam, continually disproving logic and reason just by _being._  
  
As the younger Winchester described the horrible things that happened to him and Dean, the doctor became less occupied with what didn't make sense, and more so with what Sam was telling him.  
  
John's hands clenched and unclenched, and he tore his gaze away for a moment, trying to keep the anger he was feeling out of his expression. The nearly instant drop in his faith in humanity was palpable. The thought of someone treating people, treating _children_ that way, had his heart pounding against his ribs. If John had been there--!  
  
But he hadn't. He couldn't have been. And that wasn't changing anytime soon. Right then and there, Sam was settled on John's kitchen counter, the acts of those people still weighing him down, but he was _safe_. That was what mattered to John.  
  
Turning back to Sam, John's eyes softened; he wanted nothing more than to reach out and physically comfort him somehow. He hadn't brought himself to touch either of the brothers since he'd met them, unable to truly trust himself when they were the size of a finger. After hearing Sam's story, he doubted that more contact with a human would be welcome, so he met in the middle, holding out his arm and resting the tips of his fingers on the edge of the counter near Sam.  
  
"I am so sorry that all that happened to you," he said, just above a whisper. "And while I definitely can't say I'm happy about the circumstances that brought you here, I'm… I'm glad you found this place. Found us."  
  
Sam nodded in acceptance, not afraid of the hand that was so close. He could understand the gesture, though it was impossible for him to respond in kind. “Thanks… That means a lot. Really. And Dean might not say it, but I know he was worried we’d have to leave this place after our capture, too.” He slid his knife into his jacket, leaving its reassuring weight leaning against his side in its sheath. “They never got to deliver us to our… ‘buyers.’ They really shouldn’t have left a paperclip next to the cage.”  
  
That part, at least, was a happier memory. Dean, lighting up with hope when he managed to squirm his arm _just far enough_ through the bars that his fingers brushed against the cool metal of the paperclip. Sam held his breath next to Dean the entire time, afraid to break his concentration and ruin the attempt. At only two and a half inches, and Dean at only three and a half, they were underestimated, and their captors lost out on their ‘prize pets.’  
  
“Dean can get in or out of anything, if he’s got the right tools,” Sam said, proud of his older brother. “A paperclip might be a hell of a lot bigger now, but it can still pick a lock if you know what you’re doing, and at our size it’s easy to be precise with the tumblers. Dean made sure to teach me the second he could, in case it happens again.”  
  
He shrugged, and leaned back. “That’s about it. Some people took us in when they found us curled up in the first dark corner we could find away from those people. They taught us how to survive. They might not have been able to give us back our old lives, but they taught us how to live with our new ones.  
  
“You know, they _warned_ us about moving into this flat, but we thought they were exaggerating about Sherlock.” Sam laughed. “There was so much space in the walls, and plenty of room to work with, we figured we’d make it work. And helping with his cases _is_ fun. We get to help people, one way or the other, just like Dad.”  
  
"Oh God," John chortled, letting his hand drop. He could only imagine what kinds of things-- factual and rumor alike-- that could be spread among the smaller community. The fact that there _was_ a smaller community that knew about them, or Sherlock at the very least, was equally thrilling and weird to think about.  
  
"I certainly hope you weren't around when Sherlock decided to give the wall a makeover," added the doctor with a glance toward the main room. It seemed like ages ago, but it had to be a few months shy of a year since John had come home to a yellow smiley-face spray-painted to the wall and Sherlock shooting the living daylights out of it.  
  
That had also been the night there was an explosion across the street, doing little damage to the flat overall apart from the blown-out windows. John cringed to think of how devastating something like that could be to Sam or Dean, or anyone their size. Absently, he hoped those people were well-protected wherever they were hidden, and that went double for the Winchesters.  
  
Sam’s eyes went to the entrance to the main room, looking towards the smiley face. “We were here when he shot the wall up, but not on that side of the flat,” he said. That part of the room was less useful at the time to them, so they’d only venture through it when doing a perimeter check or if they were particularly low on supplies and needed to check all angles-- or were bored and needed to stretch their legs. “Now it’s a good lookout, as I’m sure Sherlock figured out.”  
  
"Do you ever, um, get out to visit them? Those people you grew up with, I mean." John himself was fairly detached from his family, but he still called Harry at least once a year.  
  
The thought of the small adopted family Sam and Dean were saved by brought a smile to Sam’s face. “We keep in touch,” he said, thinking of their younger sister. Her black hair made her good at hiding in the shadows, letting it fall over her face to cloak herself in darkness. Some of the fairy legends _must_ have come from people like her, able to vanish in plain sight. “They’re a few houses down, but there’s a good path that goes through the attics of these old places, connecting them. And they keep in touch with others. We were pretty surprised to find out how _many_ people our size live in London undetected.”  
  
John nodded as he processed this information, sure that most of it was simply not hitting him yet. Living with Sherlock, John was accustomed to taking things in stride.  
  
While it was a bit worrisome that Sam and Dean _had_ been living in the flat all that time ago, John reasoned that they were far from the danger and were fine. As the lad said, they had a use for the holes now. It just wasn’t exactly what Sherlock had intended.  
  
"That many, eh?" Sam hadn't mentioned any exact figures, but it must've been a lot from the sound of it. John had so many questions about how exactly all those people lived, if they were more spread out or if they kept in close community. He kept them to himself, certain he wasn't meant to know such things, but one thing was bothering him, and he frowned.   
  
"But they can't have _all_ been cursed, can they?" John was still shaky on how this magic stuff worked, so for all he knew it was entirely possible for a large number of people to be affected at once.   
  
Sam shrugged. “We’re not sure,” he admitted. “We were scared when they found us, and by the time they helped us recover, we’d both heard the ‘humans are dangerous’ spiel _ad nauseum._ ” He was sheepish. “We didn’t want to tell them that’s what we used to be, in case they decided we were too dangerous to help.”  
  
He plucked a loose thread on his jeans. “They figured the humans took our original clothes and gave us ‘human-looking’ things, and were pretty surprised when we prefered the jeans and jackets. Dean’s leather jacket and our boots were from a rat we helped kill with our knives, and our adopted mom didn’t mind making the rest of the clothes. She took it all in stride.”  
  
"I bet there was quite a stir when you decided to move here, then," John remarked, recalling the warnings Sam told him about earlier. He wondered what their family would think of their current situation, being on relatively easy terms with the humans living in the flat. Given how set they seemed to be about humans, John could assume that his friendship with their sons would not be well-received. If not for that fact, John was certainly interested in meeting these people.  
  
He knew better than to expect anything, and he hoped they wouldn't find out the hard way. That'd turn out to be an awkward family visit.  
  
“You could call it that,” Sam said, his thoughts distant as he remembered exactly what they thought of this flat, and the human within. John wasn’t the one that would worry anyone, coming off as far more normal than Sherlock to anyone that saw him, but Sherlock… he was good at picking up small details, and though they’d gone to great lengths to hide their tracks and any sign of their existence, the detective had still found them.  
  
 _Guess we could have gone without helping him on cases,_ Sam thought ruefully, _but more people might have been hurt if we did._ Somewhere deep inside both brothers, they were driven to help in any way they could. A value their father had ground into Dean, and Dean into Sam in turn.  
  
Sam looked up at John. “What about you?” he asked shyly, curious about this new human in their lives. “You’ve heard all about my life now.”  
  
John blinked. "Me? Oh, I'm…" He paused, considering his answer. Apart from his relatively recent involvement in Sherlock's life and career, he didn't find his life all that remarkable. Then again, he was used to thinking in human terms. Perhaps anything would sound interesting to someone who had been basically cut off from humanity for over half his life.  
  
"Well, I was an army doctor, over in Afghanistan," he began, lacing his fingers. "After I caught a bullet in the shoulder, I was invalided home, and… Not much else happened to me after that."  
  
John had to actively remember those days. They blended together into a single day, an endless rut the doctor fell into. Waking up in his tiny flat, all he could afford on an army pension. Meals, therapy, the blog his therapist insisted he keep, and the nightmares. At night he always fell back into battle, gunshots and explosions and utter chaos haunting him without fail. Until he ran into an old friend from St. Bart's Hospital who told him of a mutual friend who was looking for a flat share.  
  
"Not until Sherlock."  
  
Sam glanced around the flat as though John’s words could summon Sherlock like magic. When the detective didn’t reappear, he looked back to John, the words sinking in.  
  
“Our dad was a Marine,” Sam said, latching onto the one thing their dad had in common with the doctor. “He served in the Vietnam war before he settled down in Lawrence with mom. He never talked much about those days, though. Unless it came up while he was teaching Dean how to fight.”  
  
Sam was not privy to those lessons growing up, obliviously going on with his life until he found his father’s journal and read through it. All the pieces had fallen together then, why Dean had a gun under his pillow, why their father was always gone. He was out hunting _monsters,_ and Dean was training to do the same. That is, until the monster came and took that chance away from both brothers. What monster could they take on at the size of a finger? It didn’t matter _how_ much lore they memorized. What Sam knew of those lessons John had given Dean, he’d learned long after, when Dean decided it was time for Sam to know to defend himself.  
  
“I’m glad you’re here,” Sam told John. “However we all got here, it turned out okay.”  
  
John smiled, thinking back to the man he was before he met Sherlock. He'd been miserable, literally limping through life on a psychological crutch. Now he could run and climb stairs and do everything he was meant to do, all because the detective picked up on his psychosomatic limp and helped him overcome it.  
  
"Yeah, me too," John agreed with Sam.  
  
Reminded of Sherlock, the doctor glanced down the hall. He didn't recall hearing or seeing him leave, so Sherlock was still in his room. Being awfully quiet.  
  
"I should probably check on him," said John quietly. "Pleasure talking to you, Sam, as always! I'm just a little suspicious of this silence."  
  
“Right,” Sam said with a knowing grin. “Hopefully Dean isn’t getting into trouble again.”  
  
He stood and stretched, one hand on the small of his back and the other over his head. No matter how many times he sat on a hard, flat surface like that, his back refused to get used to it. He thought yearningly of the seats back home, and grabbed his satchel to sling it over his shoulder. His knife could use sharpening. One of the first things Dean had found ages back with his knack was a small whetstone they could use to sharpen their weapons with. Its discovery has made them realize there was more to the pull Dean felt in certain directions than met the eye.  
  
“Be seeing you,” Sam said, and started a light jog to reach the wall.  
  
"See ya," John replied as he watched Sam go.  
  
It was only after the lad disappeared into the walls that John realized the sheer amount of information that had been passed to him from the smaller man. Sam had every reason not to trust John, and yet there he sat only a moment ago, pouring his heart out to the doctor. That alone was nothing short of amazing.  
  
John got up and crept up on Sherlock's room. The door was open, so John walked right in and frowned at the scene. The detective had stripped his bookshelves of their contents, carefully arranged them on his bed, and was running his fingers over every crevice and corner of the shelves. He froze when he heard John enter.  
  
"Snooping around, are we?" asked John flatly, crossing his arms.  
  
Sherlock sighed. "I'm not seeking them out, if that's what you're implying," he shot back. "I simply want to be aware of any entrances they might have to my bedroom. I have a right to privacy."  
  
John's eyes narrowed as he scrutinized the detective for false intentions. Sensing none, he shook his head. "Fine, just… Don't mess with anything you find. You're still on thin ice with those two."  
  
"Yes, thank you for graciously pointing that out."  
  
Rolling his eyes at Sherlock's sarcasm, John left him to it. The most Sherlock did with anything that even remotely resembled a crack or other possible entrance was place something in front of it. Not enough to block the opening entirely, but enough to discourage entry.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> A bit of background on both sides, and it looks like even when Sherlock's out of the picture, he's snooping about for clues (If only he knew what John was doing just then)
> 
> **Next:** April 23 rd 2017 at 9pm est
> 
> Comments and kudos are love!


	14. And So It Begins...

Not long after, Sherlock was seated at the table in the main room, his fingers pressed together thoughtfully as he stared down at the newspaper clippings he'd arranged on the surface. He'd received an email from one Henry St. Simon, apparently the second son of a Duke that Sherlock had never heard of until he did a quick internet search. He was seeking help on a personal matter that had recently been made public, and that was all the email held.  
  
Sherlock had dug through the pile of papers lying around the flat, finding and cutting out articles regarding St. Simon going as far back as the previous week and as recently as the day before. It all seemed rather boring at first, just a bunch of chatter about the nobleman's nuptials. He became engaged to an American woman named Meghan Collins, the daughter of a millionaire from San Francisco, California. Quite the fortune on both sides of the marriage. The detective perked up when he read yesterday's article.  
  
The bride had vanished at the reception.  
  
The clipping was woefully lacking in details, only mentioning that another woman tried to crash the party, causing a disturbance and declaring some claim on St. Simon. She was quickly ejected, and after the disappearance of St. Simon's new wife she was arrested by Scotland Yard as a suspect.  
  
Sherlock resolved to talk to Lestrade about that later, but for now he was waiting on a phone call-- a very _private_ phone call, as St. Simon's email had called it. He expected it at the top of the hour, and until then Sherlock was biding his time reviewing what little the papers could tell him.  
  
While Sherlock bided his time waiting for the phone to ring, Dean did the same in much the same manner, watching from a shelf in the corner of the room. He didn’t bother with stealth this time, leaning casually against the ornate wallpaper that lined the walls. One boot was propped against the small corner of wallpaper that turned up at the edge, displaying an entrance into the wall he’d made himself, long before Sherlock put holes in the walls by shooting up the smiley face he’d painted there.  
  
Though he put on an air of disinterest for the sake of appearances and to keep from looking eager, Dean _was_ curious about the clippings Sherlock had spread out across the table. Normally he might wait until the night came and everyone retired to their beds for the day, but there wasn’t much point in hiding now that Sherlock and John both knew they were around. Dean was itching for a new puzzle to work on, and after spending time honing his knife and bugging Sam to hone his own, he was done with staying in. If he wasn’t watching Sherlock, he’d be checking the perimeter or scoping out some food.  
  
Displaying a patience he wasn’t normally known for (at least as far as Sam was concerned), Dean watched and waited and stayed silent.  
  
Right on time, Sherlock's phone rang. He snatched it up and answered promptly.  
  
"Hello, Henry," greeted the detective. Rolling his eyes, he amended, "Right, _Lord St. Simon._ How improper of me."  
  
After a pause, Sherlock interrupted his client. "Hang on a moment, I'm going to put you on speaker." Sherlock moved the phone away from his ear and pressed the button on the screen, ignoring the protests on the other end that continued after Sherlock had set the device aside.  
  
“ _\--is meant to be completely private!_ ” came a high-strung voice, cutting through the silence of the flat.  
  
"I assure you, your privacy is intact," Sherlock replied flatly. With John out of the flat and the other two occupants seemingly set on avoiding the detective, there was no worry of any information divulged to ever leave 221B Baker Street. "I simply need both hands to work my laptop. You sent me those photos, yes?"  
  
“ _Ah, that I did, sir. I felt it was most irregular, but I was assured by my dear friend that you worked under the promise of utmost discretion. Of course, I should think that you have not taken a client whose status quite matches my own--_ ”  
  
"Oh, on the contrary," Sherlock cut in. "Only a few months ago, I was engaged by one of the residents of Buckingham Palace."  
  
“ _Wh-- Oh! Really?_ ” gasped St. Simon. “ _What sort of case did they hire you for?_ ”  
  
Sherlock smirked. "As you said yourself, I apply a promise of discretion to all of my clients."  
  
“ _O-of course, yes…_ ”  
  
"Now…" Sherlock laced his fingers. "Start from the beginning."  
  
Dean slid down while the man talked, sitting so one leg was casually dangling off the edge of the shelf while his other was bent. He idly played with his silver knife while he listened to the phone call, pleased that Sherlock had put it on speaker. He wondered if Sherlock _wanted_ them to hear, after finding out the help they’d given him on several of his cases that year.  
  
He smiled to himself as he delicately slid the knife under one of his nails, picking at the skin. Sam would berate him if he saw Dean doing anything like that, and that was likely why he persisted. Hands covered in calluses from climbing and nails worn down almost to stubs, it was the only way he could hope to clean out any grime.  
  
It sounded like the man on the other end of the telephone line could afford to suck up some of his pride, if he wanted help. Sometimes Dean wanted to slap some sense into these prim Englishmen. It’d make _him_ feel better, if nothing else.  
  
Listening to how _Sherlock_ rebuffed the man’s attitude would have to be enough.  
  
"Where and when did you meet Miss Collins?" Sherlock inquired, typing rapidly on his laptop.  
  
“ _Meghan. We met a year ago, I should think, in San Francisco,_ ” answered St. Simon.  
  
"What brought you to America?" The detective pulled up the email exchange between himself and St. Simon, opening the file of digital photographs from the wedding. He flipped through them as he listened to the telephone.  
  
“ _Ah, I was on sabbatical at the time. Her father was hosting a gathering, and I was encouraged to attend. Given his position, quite similar to that of my own family, I could hardly refuse._ ”  
  
"And I'm sure your amiable introduction to his daughter extended your holiday significantly," Sherlock surmised, finally landing on a closer picture of the bride. He'd seen quite a few pictures of St. Simon already in his research; early- to mid-forties, very _clean_ in appearance, slight greyness cropping up in his black sideburns, and the constant presence of a hat that suggested either fixated attachment or balding.  
  
His wife, on the other hand, was in her mid-twenties at least, fair skinned with fiery red hair that hung in neat curls. Her dark brown eyes were large, round, and all-around aesthetically pleasing even to Sherlock who prided himself on detaching himself from most of his human sensibilities. Given their stark age difference and the swiftness of their engagement subsequent wedding, it could be assumed that the match was considerably advantageous for both parties.  
  
St. Simon chuckled. “ _You could say that, Mister Holmes. I enjoyed her company greatly, and she delighted in showing me around her hometown. I daresay I was quite delighted myself._ ”  
  
"But you weren't engaged when you returned to England."  
  
“ _No, unfortunately I was called home before our bond became strong enough for that sort of thing._ ”  
  
"Then she came to London a few months ago, and the romance was rekindled." Sherlock couldn't stop a snide hint to his tone, but luckily the client was too reminiscent to notice.  
  
“ _Why, yes, how did you know--?_ ”  
  
"This process will go by so much quicker if you avoid that question for now," Sherlock interrupted. "Now that you ask, your affair with this woman was not exactly a secret from the tabloids."  
  
A subdued pause from St. Simon. “ _Oh. Right, yes._ ”  
  
Despite himself, Dean found himself enjoying the discomfort in _Henry’s_ tone of voice. _Like Henry Gale in the Wizard of Oz,_ Dean amused himself, unconsciously leaning forward to see the picture Sherlock had of the bride. She definitely was easy on the eyes. He could see why any man might fall for her.  
  
Hell, if Dean was into big chicks, he wouldn’t mind making a pass at her himself. That hair was something else. But, nice as it was to entertain the thought of a warm body next to him in his nest, he wasn’t about to go out with someone that could trap him in one hand. His adopted family was certainly unenthused by his habit of hitting on the neighbors when they came to visit from down the row of houses.  
  
He forced himself to focus back on the case, pushing the thought of women out of his mind. If it was possible to get her back, Dean was determined to help. It was what he wanted to do _most._ Help some people, the way he and Sam had needed help so long ago, and found none until people their own size had adopted them.  
  
"How would you describe your wife's personality?" queried the detective. He could only make assumptions based on her photographs.  
  
A sigh came from the other end. “ _Well, you can imagine, Mister Holmes. She was already aged twenty when her father came into fortune. Her childhood was spent roaming her neighborhood woods, climbing trees and communing with nature. She's actually quite boyish, to put it plainly. And she is certainly opinionated, hardheaded, very quick to make up her mind and unafraid to do what she likes. A part of me truly admires that about her. Her mind is entirely her own. It's just difficult for me to fully understand it, and therefore her, at times._ ”  
  
"And how did she seem the day before the wedding? Excited? Hopeful?"  
  
“ _Oh yes, exceedingly!_ " exclaimed St. Simon, perking up significantly. " _We had a long discourse over supper about our future endeavors; where we'd live, who would work, whether and when we'd like children--_ ”  
  
"Interesting," Sherlock mused. His eyes became distant as he considered that fact.  
  
“ _Ah, forgive me Mister Holmes, but what exactly is interesting about that?_ ”  
  
The detective rolled his eyes, comfortable in the knowledge that his client couldn't possibly be offended by a gesture he couldn't see. "It eliminates the possibility of _runaway bride_ almost entirely. That's not exactly the behavior of someone who plans to flee from her own wedding reception."  
  
Dean couldn’t stop himself from snorting at how obtuse the client was on the phone, likewise assured that he couldn’t be heard from his spot in the corner of the room. “She might flee from that attitude,” Dean muttered under his breath, rolling his own eyes in a tiny mimic of Sherlock’s, though he remained riveted on the details of the case.  
  
The tiny voice would have been imperceptible to Sherlock before he'd met the Winchesters. Now that he was attuned to smaller voices, his ear perked up at Dean's comment. He couldn't tell what the smaller man had said, but he did glance in his direction. It didn't take him long to find Dean, out in the open as he was. Sherlock smirked approvingly at him, knowing a snarky remark when he heard one. Dean stiffened, then nodded back at Sherlock.  
  
Sherlock had rather hoped at least one of the brothers would show up for this case. This was the most interesting potential non-murder he'd encountered in a long time, and it would be a shame for them to miss out on the fun just because he knew of their existence.  
  
Sherlock carried on with St. Simon. "What of the other woman, the reception crasher. That was before Collins disappeared, yes?"  
  
“ _Oh, yes. Fiona Dunham. Poor lass. She and I had a casual affair long before I met Meghan. Well… Truthfully, it was only months before my trip to America. Evidently, we didn't leave off on the best of terms._ ”  
  
"Evidently not," Sherlock agreed. "Who is she?"  
  
“ _Now, let me see… She was a ballet dancer, taught classes in town. She didn't have much to her name, so eventually I began to question her intentions. But I simply cannot imagine that she could perpetrate foul play, even to Meghan._ ”  
  
"And yet she was arrested," Sherlock pointed out.  
  
“ _That was not my doing, Mister Holmes. We called Scotland Yard the second any of us realized Meghan was gone, and that was the conclusion they drew._ ”  
  
"Definitely wouldn't be the first time they got it wrong." Sherlock ran a frustrated hand through his curls. If they would just stop and _think_ every once in a while, potential false arrests like that could be avoided.  
  
Dean found himself sharing in Sherlock’s frustration at the police, a frustration he’d practically inherited from his father, John Winchester. Whenever there was a monster in town, the police could do more harm than good because they had no idea what was really going on. From arresting the innocent victims, framed by shapeshifters, to only being able to clean up the mess left behind by a werewolf, it was best for all if they just left the hunter to his work, yet John would be taken in as a suspect just as fast as the falsely accused shapeshifter victim.  
  
He actually had something in common with Sherlock.  
  
“One false arrest can change someone’s life forever,” Dean muttered. Sherlock might know he was in the room now, but Dean didn’t raise his voice any higher, avoiding the speaker picking up a small voice and arousing suspicions.   
  
Sherlock covered the phone with his hand and leaned away from it, lowering his voice so the client couldn't hear but Dean easily could. "If you're going to comment, would you like to join us?"  
  
Despite his normal, seemingly detached manner, this was a legitimate invitation. Sherlock was interested in Dean's input, given all the cases the smaller man had practically solved _for_ him. This time, he had an opportunity to directly interact with the client without ever having to show himself.  
  
Plus, hearing such a small voice muttering under his breath was starting to strain Sherlock's ear.  
  
Heat rose to Dean’s face, and it was all he could do to stop from leaping to his feet to snap a defensive comeback at Sherlock. He forced himself to take a deep breath before reacting, having not expected Sherlock to call him out like that. No one was supposed to know Dean existed, and he took it as a blessing the human had muffled the phone before calling out to him.  
  
Heart hammering, Dean got to his feet. _What am I doing?_ He stared stubbornly across the gap at Sherlock. “This better not be some new way to lure me out where you can grab me,” he said, stabbing his knife in Sherlock’s direction. Yet deep inside, he really _did_ want to help with the case, if only to find if that girl was safe, and the thought of actually working _with_ Sherlock intrigued him. It was a huge change from how he normally got to assist.  
  
Dean stowed his knife in his jacket and pulled his hook out. Going through the walls to Sherlock’s table would muffle the conversation so he might not hear what they were talking about, so he decided climbing would be his best bet. So long as no one tried to snatch him off his thread. He hooked the edge of the shelf, and swung down to climb hand over hand at his own steady pace, nothing like Sam’s devil-may-care attitude towards climbing.  
  
Sherlock smirked. "Wouldn't dream of it," he murmured.  
  
“ _Ah, he-hello? Mister Holmes?_ ” St. Simon piped up.  
  
Removing his hand, Sherlock resettled in his chair and carried on like nothing had happened. "Now, back to your wife. After the ceremony, how did she seem to you? What was her attitude like then?"  
  
“ _Well, er, I suppose she was a little… introspective. Perhaps temperamental would be a more appropriate term. As though the littlest thing could set her off._ ”  
  
"And was she?"  
  
“ _I… was she what?_ ”  
  
"Set off," Sherlock emphasized.  
  
“Oh! Well I'm afraid I'm not quite sure. All I heard was that she claimed to feel unwell and retired to her room, just before the incident with Fiona.”  
  
Dean kept an ear cocked towards the conversation going on a few feet away as he climbed, but he knew better than to fully take his concentration away from his actions. Climbing didn’t come as natural to him as it did to Sam, and one mistaken glance at the ground could result in him clinging to the thread until he worked his courage up all over again.  
  
Getting to the ground was an accomplishment, in Dean’s opinion, especially as it was the first time he’d attempted to climb down in a room with a human who _knew where he was_ and, of course, could make a grab for him at any time. Yet Sherlock didn’t, and the conversation over the phone continued on with no break in the flow over Dean’s head as he hitched his duffel bag up and flicked the hook from the shelf, only to catch it in one smooth motion.  
  
Actions like that had become ordinary for Dean after over a decade living under half a foot tall, and now he simply coiled up his thread, not bothering to stuff it back in his bag. He’d need it in no time at all, and as he turned towards the table, he tilted his head up to keep an eye on Sherlock the entire time he was walking. He hovered close to the wall, knowing better than to walk out in the open where humans were apt to tread. His legs, under two inches in length, just didn’t have the speed he would need to get out of the way if they didn’t spot him in time.  
  
Sherlock watched Dean's every move in the corner of his eye. Not only was his trek fascinating to witness, but the detective was able to take note of a few interesting observations. The slight hesitation when the small man climbed, yet the ease with which he handled his rope. Well practiced, but likely acrophobic. Sherlock had noticed Dean's wariness for heights previously, but now he was certain that the smaller man forced himself to push past it in favor of survival.  
  
None of this information was necessarily useful at the moment, but Sherlock couldn't help noticing details like those. He logged them away for now, in case they came in handy in the future.  
  
"Did anyone see her leave the building?" he queried.  
  
“ _I don't believe so. Although her maid of honor believes she may have seen her on her way out!_ ”  
  
Sherlock hummed thoughtfully, leaning an elbow on the table. He flipped through the photos of the wedding once again until he found one that had a good shot of the maid of honor. She was tall, well-tanned, black-haired and blue-eyed. "She knew the bride well, I'd imagine."  
  
“ _Better than anyone. But she wasn't certain it was Meghan leaving at first. She only saw a woman rushing toward the foyer, dress and face covered up. It was only after we were all certain Meghan was gone that she suspected it to be her._ ”  
  
While St. Simon talked, Dean sized up his next obstacle. The table.  
  
From the corner of his eyes, he could see Sherlock’s long legs stretching up from the ground. Dean let his hook drop from his hand, dangling by the black thread he’d obtained for climbing. He started to swing it back and forth, falling into a familiar rhythm. Though Sam was the best climber, no contest, Dean _never_ missed a shot, and had the eye for launching his hook from the ground. Sam’s three-pronged hook gave him more opportunities for it to catch, but Dean would never give up his single-prong hook for it. The weight and balance was _perfect._  
  
Releasing the hook on the upswing, Dean took a step back to watch it sail into the air. A proud grin crossed his face when it latched onto the edge of the table. One tug was all it took to make sure it was anchored securely into the wood grain.  
  
Thus assured it wouldn’t slip free on him, Dean began to climb, his upwards journey somewhat speedier than his downwards.  
  
"And that was the last Miss Collins was seen?" Sherlock pressed, tracking Dean's hook and his progress up the miniscule rope with gleaming eyes. The skill and enhanced strength (proportionally speaking) displayed was certainly a marvel. Dean easily caught his grapple on a surface that was the equivalent of several stories high. Whether that was a natural compensation for his size or an effect of the curse, which Sherlock was still reluctant to believe, would have to be a question for another day.  
  
“ _Actually, no,_ ” replied St. Simon. “ _According to Scotland Yard, she was spotted further down the street, walking alongside Fiona. That, of course, greatly impacted their decision to arrest her._ ”  
  
"Yes…" Sherlock pressed his hands together and glanced at Dean, by then standing on the table and patiently coiling his rope around his arm. "Input?"  
  
“ _Ah, beg pardon, but are you asking for_ my _input? Mister Holmes, I have called on_ you _to solve this dilemma, not the other way round--_ ”  
  
"Oh no, Lord St. Simon. I was addressing my associate."  
  
An indignant noise crackled through the phone. “ _I thought you were alone--!_ ”  
  
"I promised you privacy, and I have not violated that agreement," interrupted Sherlock. "Mr. Winchester is an American, much like your wife, and can provide insight on her potential state of mind and process of decision-making. He has also assisted me on numerous cases in the past. I trust his judgement, and I guarantee his discretion."

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> THE TEAM UP EVERYONE'S BEEN WAITING FOR, AND I DON'T THINK DEAN'S HAPPY RIGHT ABOUT NOW
> 
> **Next:** April 26 th 2017 at 9pm est
> 
> Comments and kudos are love!


	15. An Offer That Can't Be Refused

Dean had a very poignant glare reserved for Sherlock at being put on the spot, and he stared at the phone like it was a poisonous snake, very much cornered into helping. _Thanks for_ your _discrecion,_ he thought snippily up at Sherlock, praying he hadn’t made a very large mistake by agreeing to help the detective. If anyone ever wanted to meet ‘Mr. Winchester,’ they would be sorely disappointed.  
  
“ _Sounds_ like she had a pretty sweet set-up,” he said, this time speaking loud enough for the phone’s speaker to pick up his much softer-voice, and only able to hope that St. Simon would miss the importance of _that_ fact. He paced along the table, giving Sherlock a wide berth while staring down at the photographs for a better look.  
  
“If she was so excited for the wedding just the other day,” Dean said, thinking aloud so he could go through the facts for a closer look, much like he might use Sam to bounce ideas off of, “then somethin’ must have changed between then and her disappearance. Excited before the wedding, temperamental at the reception. Did anything strange happen at the ceremony?” Dean felt a chill up his spine, remembering his dad asking much the same, only bent towards the supernatural. _Any cold spots? Did you smell anything strange when it happened?_  
  
The corner of Sherlock's lip quirked upward at Dean's analysis. "Excellent question," he commended, glad that he and the elder Winchester were on the same page.  
  
For once, St. Simon was silent on the other end of the call as he considered his answer. “ _Oh!_ ” he cried after a few false starts. “ _There was a moment… But it can't mean anything, it was simply a--_ ”  
  
"Answer the question," said Sherlock firmly, all formalities forgotten.  
  
A few seconds of startled stammering later, St. Simon cleared his throat. “ _As Meghan was walking up the aisle, she… It's so trivial, honestly. She dropped her bouquet._ ”  
  
Sherlock frowned at the phone. "And then?"  
  
“ _And then someone picked it up for her. Gave it back without a word._ ”  
  
Dean’s pacing came to a halt, and he stared down at the phone, everything else forgotten with a case to focus on. “So she just _drops_ her bouquet without a word? During what should be the most important ceremony of her life?” He shook his head, his voice full of sarcasm. “That seems _normal._ Right up there with pigs flying.”  
  
He didn’t have any personal experience with marriage, but he’d watched television all throughout his youth, and every show at some point seemed to go into tying the knot between two characters, and the women always seemed to put all their effort into making it go _flawlessly._ It was hard to imagine someone so excited for the wedding simply dropping a bouquet of flowers during the main event, while all cameras were trained her way, and not even letting out a word of dismay.  
  
“ _Well, I say!_ ” exclaimed the client. “ _Of all the blunt--!_ ”  
  
"What my colleague lacks in tact, he more than makes up for with a fine point." Sherlock's laser focus turned back to the pictures, flipping rapidly until photos of the ceremony came up. None of them depicted the incident in question, of course, being one of the less desirably remembered moments of the ceremony, but Sherlock scanned the pews for anyone close enough to pick up and hand the bride her dropped bouquet. "Who gave her the bouquet? Where were they seated?"  
  
“ _Ah, I believe it was the second to last pew. Or the third. Yes, the third sounds right. On the bride's side._ ”  
  
"Did you know him?" asked Sherlock, eyes narrowed on the people on the ends of the aforementioned pews, both men.  
  
“ _Not at all. Can't say I'd describe him as memorable, however. Quite a plain-looking chap._ ”  
  
Dean gave Sherlock’s hands a wary glance as he sidled closer to the picture, wanting to take a look of his own. He ignored the gaze coming from above as he knelt down on the newspaper clippings, running a hand over the picture of the man in question.  
  
“Beauty is in the eye of the beholder,” Dean quoted, a phrase from his past that had bearing on the present. He couldn’t recall its origin, but it certainly seemed to fit.  
  
A ‘plain-looking chap’ in one person’s eye could be a multitude of things in another’s. A former rival, or a former lover. Someone she’d worked with, or someone from her childhood. A person that had garnered a seat on the bride’s side, but the groom had no knowledge of.  
  
“How much do you know about her past?” Dean asked, slotting himself neatly into the conversation almost naturally now, his former life as a human coming back to him.  
  
“ _My knowledge there is… rather limited, I'm afraid. While my wife is energetic and passionate about her desires and future endeavors, she was always quite reticent when it came to her past. Though, she was rather selective as well. For instance, she could speak freely about her school years and childhood, but never about her late mother or matters similar to that._ ”  
  
"I see…" Sherlock slowly laced his fingers and brought them under his chin. "One last question: at the reception, were you in view of a window? Perhaps opening to a courtyard or street?"  
  
St. Simon hummed thoughtfully. “ _I believe so, yes. The front gardens were quite visible from there. But the blinds were shut after Fiona's tantrum._ ”  
  
"No matter. Well, it was a pleasure speaking with you, Lord St. Simon, I think we have all we need."  
  
“ _Ah, very good. I wish you luck, Mister Holmes, on getting to the bottom of this matter._ ”  
  
Sherlock smirked. "Already done."  
  
“ _I-- What?_ ”  
  
"I've solved it."  
  
“ _Then-- where is my wife??_ ”  
  
"I'll have that information soon enough. I'll be in touch."  
  
“ _Sherlock Holmes, I--!_ ”  
  
Sherlock reached across the table and hung up the phone, picking it up to review the notifications he'd missed during the call. "Impressive observations," he remarked with a brief glance at Dean.  
  
Dean glared back, torn between reactions. Part of him wanted to bask in the praise, feeling for the first time in his life that he was doing the right thing, and he didn’t have to hide it anymore. After living in the flat so long, he knew that such praise from Sherlock came rarely, only given if truly believed.  
  
The other part of him was still smarting over how he’d been cornered into talking to the client. After living in the walls for over a decade, _tact_ was something he lacked.  
  
“I know a thing or two,” Dean said, crossing his arms and stubbornly standing his ground as Sherlock moved about so close. After everything he’d been through in the last few weeks he wasn’t about to shy back from the human _now_. “But what’s the big idea with having _me_ talk to him?”  
  
Dean pointed at the newspaper clippings. “As far as the world knows, _Dean and Sam_ Winchester are dead. Have been for years. The last thing we need is anyone figuring out what _really_ happened, or putting up any red flags for that witch to come after.”  
  
Sherlock scoffed. "Relax. No one but the three of us is ever going to know about this conversation, and only two of those three are aware of your _stature_."  
  
Scrolling through the alerts displayed on his screen, Sherlock frowned even as he continued to explain himself to Dean. "This is perhaps the most private client I've ever worked for, and if he were to pop over to the flat anytime, it would be to beg for my help. Since he didn't even do _that_ , and he has no idea what really happened to his vanished wife, he's ever on alert for potential assault. In addition, he has a public image, nearly everyone in London knows his face. A stroll through Central London would certainly lead to him being mobbed, even with a bodyguard or two hovering nearby.  
  
"He has no idea who you are, and what little information I did give was not enough to reveal any illicit details. The name _Winchester_ , while not exactly common, belongs to enough people to discourage anyone from drawing any conclusions, especially someone like him. He'd need it to be spelt out in tedious detail before he could _begin_ to suspect anything. 'Yes, this is the tiny man who lives in my flat, he'd like to ask you a few questions.' Truly a moron of the highest degree."  
  
“So long as we’re all on the same page about that,” Dean said, forcefully waving his hand for emphasis and refusing to budge on that point. “No one ever finds out about me or Sam unless _we_ decide they can know.”  
  
With the conversation going so well, Dean strolled over the rest of the newspaper clippings to take it all in, marveling about how different this was from how he normally worked on a case. Coming out in the middle of the night with Sam watching his back. Only able to use one or two words, carefully selected to give Sherlock the nudge in the direction he needed. Sometimes they had to _wait_ for the right opportunity to come along. Time that might cost other people their lives, but the brothers had no other way to help.  
  
“You hold him in such _high regard,_ ” Dean said dryly, his boot planted on an image of the bride and groom. “So, what’s the plan?”  
  
"You'll find I don't hold many people in high regard," muttered Sherlock. Very few people had the heart to tolerate the detective's cold nature, and even fewer were able to chip their way into his heart. Those were the people Sherlock kept close and would fight to defend until his last breath.  
  
Whether the Winchesters would end up falling into either of those categories remained to be seen.  
  
Sherlock focused back on his phone. Two missed calls and a few texts from Inspector Lestrade, and one text from John containing a link to an up-to-the-minute news site. He clicked on the link first, eyes widening.  
  
"Detective-Inspector Lestrade is on this case, too. And evidently he's stumbled upon something quite interesting." He angled the mobile toward Dean and held it at a comfortable distance, close enough for the small man to make out the article. Someone found Meghan Collins' wedding dress floating in the Serpentine in Hyde Park along with a few of her belongings, and they spent the morning dredging the lake for the woman's body. "And as usual, he has all the information yet comes to the completely _wrong_ conclusion."  
  
Dean took a step towards the phone, his eyes rapidly scanning through the words on the screen. So the police thought she was dead. Despite himself, his lips quirked up into a smile. Now _this_ was fun.  
  
“My dad taught me that all the police are good for is getting in the way, or locking up the wrong guy,” Dean said, stepping back again so he could meet Sherlock in the eye with less strain. “Sometimes going so far as to throw the wrong man in jail.” _Like my dad._  
  
More than once, Dean could remember the rush to get out of town before the police tracked John Winchester, in one of his many alias,’ down to the motel where his kids were staying. Hauled out of the room and dragged to the Impala, Sam would have no idea what was happening. Sometimes it happened in the middle of the night, and Dean would end up with his little brother sleeping in his lap.  
  
“How long before you break the news to them?” Dean asked with a grin.  
  
Sherlock took his phone back the second Dean was through looking at it, considering the notifications Lestrade had left. Voicemails for each of the attempts to call; Sherlock ignored those. The first of the texts from him read _Fine. Your way, then._ and the other two were photos. One was of the dress, recently pulled from the lake and laid out. While waterlogged and slightly muddy, it was otherwise untouched. No tears or rips, no blood.  
  
The second photo put a gleam in Sherlock's eye. "Right now," he replied to Dean, dropping his phone onto the table. He stood to gather the necessary credentials and throw on his coat, leaving the image up for Dean's perusal: A simple note scribbled on the back of a receipt.  
  
_If you believe in true love, come with me when you see me. FMD_  
  
"The hunt is on!" exclaimed the detective excitedly, wrapping his favorite scarf around his neck with particular fervor. He returned to the table to retrieve his mobile, pausing when his eyes fell on Dean, out-of-place among the articles and pictures for the case. Then Sherlock hit upon a most novel idea.  
  
"Want to come? This could very well prove to be _most_ entertaining."

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> After years of waiting for his chance to make a difference, Sherlock's offering for Dean to come along with him!
> 
> The case they're on is based on [The Adventure of the Noble Bachelor](https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/The_Adventure_of_the_Noble_Bachelor)!
> 
> **Next:** April 30 th 2017 at 9pm est
> 
> Comments and kudos are love!


	16. One Giant Leap

_Shocked_ didn’t adequately describe how Dean felt about Sherlock’s offer.  
  
Stunned, aghast, flustered… None of them came close. Maybe appalled, at _himself_ , for actually finding that he was _considering_ it.  
  
 _Sam would_ kill _me!_  
  
And yet, his mind entertained the possibility of actually being able to see the end of the case for himself, and know that everything was put to rest. Then, there was Sherlock’s exclamation, _The hunt is on!_ Those words tugged at Dean’s heart, reminding him of his determination as a kid to be a hunter like his dad. This wasn’t quite the same…  
  
But maybe it would be close enough.  
  
Before anything though, Dean came up short at the next thought. He’d have to go with _Sherlock,_ and that meant he’d be putting his life in the hands of a man that just a week ago, he’d tormented endlessly with shoelaces. A week before _that_ and Sherlock was putting him in a jar.  
  
Not the best trust-building exercises.  
  
Dean sized up Sherlock. “You know that means I’ll have to be _on_ you somewhere, right?” he asked cautiously. “There’s not much chance I’ll be keepin’ up with you on foot.”  
  
"Of course," Sherlock conceded, reviewing and eliminating their options before proceeding. Trouser pockets were out of the question; obviously too cramped for the smaller of the two, and traveling in that particular setup would undoubtedly be uncomfortable for both involved. The outside pockets of his coat were both occupied with various belongings. Sherlock could shift the items into one pocket, but then Dean would have to endure the trip in one of the least stable places in Sherlock's coat, flapping in the wind as the detective walked. That left two options.  
  
"I have an inside pocket on the left side of my coat. It would be relatively stationary and would be the least likely place to cause you injury. If you don't find that to be agreeable, the remaining choice is to take my shoulder. There's plenty to hold on to, between my scarf and the collar, which is more than tall enough to keep you hidden from passersby. You'd have to be careful when I'm directly interacting with others, and, obviously, to not fall off. Should be easy to avoid, as long as you keep back far enough."  
  
Dean crossed his arms as he sized up the options offered to him. Being stuck on the _inside_ of Sherlock's coat sounded like the last place Dean wanted to be. The image of someone brushing up against the pocket came to him, and he wouldn’t see it coming. He'd spend the entire time wondering if each moment would be his last.  
  
The shoulder had its own problems. Sherlock was the size of a friggin' _building,_ and once again Dean found himself wondering if he'd left his mind behind in his nest that morning when he woke up.  
  
Fear of heights aside, anchoring himself on the shoulder of a walking, talking building with a mind of its own sounded like no fun at all.  
  
Yet being in the pocket was the less appealing option. If something was going to happen, Dean wanted to be able to react to it.  
  
Helpless was _not_ the way he wanted to do things.  
  
"Shoulder," Dean accepted mulishly. "Just... No _running_ anywhere," he said, his face a little white at the thought of what he was about to do.  
  
Sherlock nodded. "Very well."  
  
He pocketed his mobile, freeing his hand to approach Dean. It halted a few inches away, torn for a moment. While he trusted himself to be able to carefully handle the small man, it occurred to him that Dean might not be so confident.   
  
In a rare moment of clarity, Sherlock changed his mind.  
  
The hand turned and flattened itself against the table, forming a platform. Perhaps if Sherlock at least _tried_ something different, he would be less likely to be sliced by that tiny knife of Dean's again.  
  
Dean once again found himself eyeing something like it was a poisonous snake, coiled to strike. Yet it didn’t lash out, or make to grab at him. It sat there, almost taunting him.  
  
 _Your move._  
  
Dean Winchester was not about to back down after agreeing to go. He was a man of his word, and so he hitched up his duffel, gave one last glance to the flat around them, wondering if it would be his last, bade a silent farewell to Sam, and stepped onto the hand.  
  
The surface was springy, and now that Dean wasn’t fighting for his life against Sherlock’s grip, he was able to take note of the strange, almost-leathery skin underneath his boots. He stumbled as he stepped over a wrinkle, faintly disturbed at how much detail he could see in a _hand_ that he would never have noticed as a human, and couldn’t see in his _own_ hands. That reminded him all over again that he was putting himself in the grasp of someone who could have absolute power over his life if he wanted it, and Dean had gone _willingly._  
  
Sam really _was_ going kill him. If he made it back.  
  
Dean turned in place once he reached the center of Sherlock’s palm, warily eyeing the huge fingers arrayed around him. Just one could pin him in place. He was smaller than a _finger._  
  
Taking a steeling breath, Dean put a hand on his duffel for an anchor, then looked up at Sherlock and nodded.  
  
Sherlock's fingers stiffened from the sensation of tiny boots adding the faintest pressure to his palm. It was very different from the last time he'd held either brother. Then, the detective's brain had been going a mile a minute, trying to puzzle out exactly how people could function at that size. He'd also been trapping them, keeping his movements quick and effective to discourage escape.  
  
Now, Sherlock needed to be slow and careful if he ever wanted this to happen again.  
  
Acting on Dean's signal, Sherlock steadily lifted his hand up from the table, gaze unblinking as he kept an eye on his small passenger. His fingers remained still until he began the transition to his shoulder, curling to push back the tall, wool collar of his coat. This created a suitable gap between it and the deep blue scarf.  
  
"Keep back from the edge," reiterated the detective, his voice low. "The coat will stop you from falling, and the more enclosed space might help alleviate your acrophobia."  
  
“Oh man,” Dean breathed when he happened to catch a glimpse of the drop over the edge of Sherlock’s hand. He was suspended in midair, only a thin layer of skin, muscle and bone holding him up.  
  
 _What was I thinking?_  
  
Before he could change his mind and demand to go back down to the nice, safe, _stable_ surface of the table, Dean gripped his duffel tight and pushed off of the hand, thanking any god or minor deity that might be listening for the scarf and jacket that formed a barrier that would block the cliff-like view off the back of Sherlock’s jacket.  
  
Dean landed on the curved surface of Sherlock’s shoulder, and found himself grabbing the scarf and pulling it around like a shawl as he backed against Sherlock’s neck, cornering himself in the most stable position he could find and trying to recreate a seatbelt with the blue fabric.  
  
“Too high,” he declared. “Too, too high.”  
  
Sherlock let out a measured sigh. "Like I said. Anchor yourself, keep hidden, and _breathe_. You'll be fine."  
  
That said, he turned to face the mirror hanging above the fireplace mantel. One could hardly make Dean out from that distance, even though Sherlock remained acutely aware of the elder Winchester's tiniest shift. The detective reached up to straighten his collar, making sure it stood as tall as possible. Nodding resolutely to himself, Sherlock glanced through the mirror at the shoulder occupied by Dean.  
  
"Shall we?"  
  
“Easier said than done,” Dean griped to himself. He made a visible effort to relax, forcing his hands to unclench from the coarse fabric around him. Inanely, he found himself wishing that his clothing was better at blending into the deep blue folds arrayed around him, though that would only ever be useful in this unique situation, and would make him stand out like a sore thumb anywhere else.  
  
That done, he spared a glance at his reflection, somewhat surprised to see how he faded into the background. If Dean didn't know what to look for, he’d miss the tiny leather jacket crouched in the crook of Sherlock's neck. He was small enough that the shadows and combination of the scarf folding around him helped him blend in.  
  
Deep breath. He could do this. No problem.  
  
Dean shifted one last time, taking advantage of the mirror to hide himself from view completely. Now all he needed to get used to was the fact that he was sitting on a giant and had handed control of his life over to him. A trip out of the flat was normal to Sherlock, but the last time Dean had safely walked along the streets, he'd been much bigger than now. Younger, but bigger.  
  
“We've got this,” Dean said, his voice wound up with nerves he couldn't hide. “Nothin’ to it. Lead the way, Godzilla.”   
  
Despite himself, Sherlock smirked at the nickname. Dean's continued references, including the time he called the detective _King Kong_ weeks ago, certainly made Sherlock more inclined to believe that the brothers had once been human, but that was the last thought he wanted to consider at the moment.  
  
Sherlock turned on his heel and walked smoothly out the door, closing it behind him.  
  
"Stairs," he warned, attempting to descend the narrow staircase while jostling Dean as little as possible.  
  
Dean found himself leaning against the high collar of Sherlock’s jacket. His stomach dropped out at the brief feeling of vertigo each short drop brought (a short drop that was actually deeper than he was tall), and he squinted his eyes shut until they reached the bottom.  
  
Dean let out a breath in unison with Sherlock, the sound of his drowned out by the larger gust that the detective hadn’t even known he’d been holding in. “That wasn’t so bad,” he said, trying to encourage himself with a pep talk. He was suspended almost six feet up in the air on a shoulder with a blue scarf as his only safety harness, but he’d made it without faltering.   
  
With the stairs of the flat behind them, Dean adjusted his position again so he was better hidden, leaning against Sherlock’s neck. He could feel the steady beat of a pulse underneath the firm skin, and tried to focus on it to the exclusion of everything else. It was easier to concentrate on the giant he was sitting on than the giants they might encounter on this spur of the moment trip.  
  
With that obstacle overcome, Sherlock wasted no time in stepping out onto the street. His guard was immediately up, and he eyed each pedestrian that passed defensively. Perhaps this was what people referred to as having a chip on their shoulder.  
  
In a way, Sherlock supposed he did have one.  
  
He hailed a taxi with the arm opposite Dean's shoulder, and approached as soon as it stopped.  
  
"Where to, mate?" asked the driver.  
  
"Hyde Park," Sherlock replied as he slid into the back seat, carefully shutting the door. "Quick as you can."  
  
While the cabbie pulled out, Sherlock settled in directly behind the driver's seat, relying on Dean to shift himself to avoid being seen in the rearview mirror. This mode of transportation wasn't ideal, considering the detective's passenger, but it was the quickest way to the crime scene. Lestrade had ensured that they would wait for the detective to weigh in on the matter, and Sherlock was not about to risk anyone getting impatient and ruining everything.  
  
As the road began to flash by out the window, Dean found himself forgetting about the height and everything else it had taken to get to this point.  
  
He was _outside_.  
  
For the first time since his curse over a decade ago, Dean was willingly outside, far from the safety offered by the walls of a house or a ceiling over his head. It might not be ideal, since he needed to rely on transportation from a man who he still wasn’t completely sure about, but it was something.   
  
Not even as a child had he ever seen the streets of London. They were transported in the dark, clinging to each other for reassurance. Both brothers had feared that if they let go of the other, they might never see their brother again, so complete was the darkness. Amplified sounds of people talking and cars driving and honking had intruded on them, driving home how little control they had over their lives in those days.  
  
Dean’s eyes constantly scanned the outside, enthralled at the sight, Even if it wasn’t the Impala, he was back in a car, traveling like they once had. “If only Sam could see this,” he said in awe, his voice hushed.  
  
Sherlock blinked, not used to hearing a small voice just behind his ear. He almost glanced to the side on reflex before he stopped himself, remembering that there was no one to look at. Only Dean, hidden on his shoulder.  
  
Pulling out his mobile, Sherlock texted Lestrade that he was on his way and would be arriving in fifteen minutes. After he sent it, he opened up another message with no recipient and typed, **Maybe he will one day**. Then he held his phone where Dean would be able to see his comment. It was the best mode of communication he could think of without alerting the cabbie, short of pretending to have a phone call.  
  
Dean saw the phone move into view out of the corner of his eye, still hungrily watching the street pass them by, and his eyebrows raised. He wouldn’t have pegged Sherlock as sentimental by any means. The message was something he’d expect out of John.  
  
The means to communicate was innovative, though. Dean hadn’t expected a response to his comment, just saying what came to mind. He knew his voice was too soft for the driver to hear, just another part of his size that grated at times and came in useful at others.  
  
Dean couldn’t quite hold in a scoff at the words on the screen. “Yeah, well, we’ll see what he thinks of all this when we get back,” he said, wondering what Sam was going to say. “He’s already got issues with being around two humans, nevermind _more_.”  
  
The detective smirked and lowered the phone, deleting his previous message. When he lifted the mobile again, it read, **Suppose I'm in trouble, then, aren't I?**  
  
Sherlock watched the buildings and cars become blurs as the cab passed by, considering the younger Winchester. While he had opened up more than Dean seemed willing to, it was also understandable that he would have reservations about John and Sherlock.  
  
Mostly Sherlock, it seemed, seeing as _clearly_ they were comfortable enough to speak with John on his own.  
  
“Join the club,” Dean muttered, envisioning just how much trouble he was going to be in when they got back. If he’d gone to find Sam, who was working in their main room with his notes, Sherlock might have left. It would be at least a ten minute trek back to the room.  
  
 _Unless Sherlock gave you a lift,_ a voice taunted Dean from inside his head.  
  
Annoyed, Dean waved that off. Asking Sherlock for a lift back home was nothing like getting a hand to his shoulder. He’d have to reveal where they lived for that, and that wasn’t about to happen.  
  
“I’ll never hear the end of this one,” Dean grumbled, but deep inside, he knew he’d do it all again if he got the chance.  
  
Sherlock nodded in agreement, internally wincing at the thought of the flaying he was in for from John's end. Considering how protective the doctor immediately became of the Winchesters upon their discovery, it wasn't likely Sherlock would receive much sympathy, but he was confident in the fact that he didn't _force_ Dean to come along. He’d merely _invited_ him, and Dean had accepted.  
  
His mobile buzzed and he briefly glanced at the text that popped up. Lestrade was warning Sherlock that their time was limited. Sherlock looked at the time, then messaged the Inspector back, insisting to wait for ten more minutes.   
  
Knowing that even that request wouldn't be guaranteed, Sherlock dropped the phone into his lap with a huff, propping his chin on his knuckles. He was unable to stifle a few aggravated fidgets.  
  
Dean clung to the scarf around him, finding Sherlock’s fidgets and movements more like an earthquake. His own personal earthquake, complete with annoyed huffs about the time. The meaning of the text messages wasn’t lost on Dean just because he could only catch brief glimpses of them past the dark curls and folds of fabric.   
  
“Dude, we’re not getting there any faster if you twitch!” he griped in annoyance, shifting his spot again to try and keep from sliding into sight. He punched the neck he was sitting next to. “Quit movin!’ ”  
  
Sherlock rolled his eyes as he faintly registered the tiny punch. It didn't come close to hurting, but the detective understood the gesture well enough. He supposed he should be more mindful of his passenger, especially if he wanted to continue their professional relationship.  
  
With a deep breath, Sherlock crossed his arms and settled into the corner of the seat and the door, giving his shoulder one last deliberate roll before falling still. He scowled out the window; the longer he went without access to the evidence, the sooner Meghan Collins would disappear for good.  
  
Dean was not amused by the way Sherlock’s shoulder bucked under him, sending him sprawling in the blue fabric with a strangled growl.  
  
Swearing under his breath, Dean pointedly grabbed the scarf to bunch it up around his spot again, and then leaned against Sherlock’s neck, and jabbed said neck behind him in a very pointed elbow, though with less force than his punch.  
  
Crossing his arms, Dean glared out the window in an unintentional mimic of Sherlock’s position.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sherlock's scarf is _perfect_ for smols, and Dean agrees! If there were no heights to deal with, this would be a perfect arrangement.
> 
> These two just always find something to snip at each other over XD
> 
> The case they're on is based on [The Adventure of the Noble Bachelor](https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/The_Adventure_of_the_Noble_Bachelor)!
> 
> **Next:** May 3 rd 2017 at 9pm est
> 
> Comments and kudos are love! <3


	17. Overreacting

Sam leaned back, staring up at his work from the past several hours.  
  
On his side of the room he shared with Dean, the walls were covered in scrap pieces of paper. Each was carefully gathered over time, along with the collection of broken pencil tips scattered to the side. Sam had substituted these torn scraps for a journal of his own, and now had placed the latest piece of paper in its home.  
  
It hung slightly askew, and with a frown Sam reached up to adjust it, trying to work the old scotch tape so it held fast. It didn’t quite work, sagging down to the other side.

[Artwork by gtpanda!](http://gtpanda.deviantart.com/art/Research-665768009)

Sam huffed in frustration. He should go find another piece. Or see if he could drag some thumbtacks out of Dean’s strangely well-attuned sense of _need._  
  
But when Sam got up to search for Dean to propose his idea, he found the rest of their small home empty. The main room, the carefully split-up bedroom, the hall to the kitchen…  
  
Dean’s duffel bag and climbing supplies were gone.  
  
Maybe he was in the storage room across the fireplace. Grabbing his satchel, Sam slung it over his back. All the bruises were gone from his front, and the lack of pain was welcome. It made it easy for him to run the distance to their storage room.  
  
No Dean.  
  
Sam was really starting to worry, and he glanced down the passage that lead from their storage out to the main room of Sherlock and John’s flat. Nothing. He peeled the wallpaper back to see if Dean was _in_ the main room.  
  
Nothing. Sherlock was gone as well. His voice had distantly registered in Sam’s mind while working through his scattered journal, but now he was missing too.  
  
His worry ratcheted up another level, and Sam found himself darting towards the kitchen.  
  


* * *

  
John heaved a sigh as he shut the door behind him. Days at the office seemed to drag on ever since he and Sherlock found out they were no longer alone in 221B. Examining patient after patient quickly became tedious, and he found himself going through each appointment on autopilot. He felt completely drained when he came home.  
  
Running his hands down his face, John shrugged off his coat and went straight for his armchair. It didn't strike him as odd that Sherlock seemed to be out; the detective was fairly intent on a case when John left that morning. In fact, the most exciting part of his day had been finding an article pertaining to the case and sending it to his flatmate. No doubt Sherlock had gone to investigate the new evidence.  
  
John breathed deeply, wondering if it was going to be a quiet afternoon after all.  
  
By the time John sank into his armchair, Sam was in a near panic. Dean was nowhere to be found. All the passageways they kept clear between the two of them were empty, he wasn’t in any of the kitchen cabinets scavenging food, and even calling out in Sherlock’s room from the floor entrance near the bed resulted in nothing.  
  
Gone.  
  
Sam leaned against the wall, his breathing stuttered from anxiety. This was the first time he’d _ever_ had trouble finding Dean in over a decade. He closed his eyes, trying to think. What could he do?  
  
Dean wouldn’t go to their adopted family’s home without telling him. It was too far, several houses down the line. Ever since their curse, they’d stayed near each other for security and safety. They were too small in the world. If either brother lost track of the other, they might not be able to find each other again.  
  
There was a creak from outside the walls, and Sam paused.  
  
He’d lost track of time. John was back in the flat, sitting in the armchair that guarded their small home, without a clue that they lived so close. He would probably be on his laptop, updating his blog or finding out what Sherlock was up to…  
  
And Sam was running for the entrance to the bookshelf before he even realized his feet were moving.  
  
“John!” Sam skid to a stop at the edge of the books, bracing each hand on a book so he could lean out. “John!” His eyes were wide.  
  
John had just pulled his computer into his lap when Sam's voice rang in his ear. He whirled around, immediately put on edge by the younger Winchester's tone of voice. It didn't matter that Sam had appeared unexpectedly and seemingly out of nowhere. John had never seen the kid this stressed, not even when Sherlock had them trapped in jars.  
  
"Sam," breathed the doctor, taken aback. "What's wrong? Are you alright?"  
  
Sam had to pause before he answered, sucking in a deep breath and raking his fingers through his long hair. His pulse hammered in his chest. “It’s-- it’s _Dean,_ ” he finally managed to say, pushing through the panic that was nipping at the edge of his mind.  
  
And like that, the dam burst and Sam couldn’t stop talking, just like the first time he’d talked to John all on his own. “He’s _gone_ and I can’t find him anywhere and he wouldn’t just _leave_ me like this to go visit our family, we _always_ go together and I can’t _lose_ him, he’s all I have!” His bright hazel eyes started to grow glassy as those words sank in.  
  
Losing Dean.  
  
Sam’s biggest fear. Worse than being stuck at a fraction of his height, he could _face_ that with Dean at his side. But if Dean was _gone…_ Sam had nothing.  
  
“Please I don’t know what to _do,_ ” Sam said, his chest hitching when he choked on the words. Without Dean, he felt more lost than he had in _years._  
  
"Hey, hey," John whispered, reaching his hand toward Sam. Riled up as the lad was, John was even more reluctant to touch him than ever, so he repeated his gesture from the last time he'd spoken to Sam, pressing his fingertips to the edge of the bookshelf.  
  
"We'll find him," said John unequivocally. His heart bled to see Sam so worried, so _lost_ without his brother. "You've looked in all his usual places, yeah?" John could only assume so, considering how _sure_ Sam was of Dean's disappearance.  
  
“Sorry,” Sam whispered, still trying to calm down. He rubbed his face, then hesitantly kicked a boot against the huge fingertip next to him on the shelf to accept the gesture, his small boot barely making an impression against the thick skin. He appreciated the sentiment, but he wasn’t quite ready to reach out and touch the human, friendly or not. Sam hadn’t spent any time in _friendly_ hands in his life, unless he counted Dean’s when his older brother was taking care of him, and Dean's hands could hardly be counted as large. Not when dealing with people who could snatch up both brothers in one hand.  
  
Which was why it was so important to find him. Sam couldn’t have his older brother getting into trouble on his own. Everyone needed someone to watch their back.  
  
“I looked for him at home, all through the tunnels we use the most…” Sam closed his eyes to concentrate. “Checked the main room, the kitchen and Sherlock’s room, just to make sure he wasn’t getting into trouble, and nothing. All his climbing equipment’s gone with him, and that’s all I could find out. I just… I can’t _find_ things like Dean. My stupid knack’s useless now.”  
  
John nodded, glancing around the main room as he took his hand back. Absently, he ran his thumb over the fingertip Sam had nudged with his foot. If he concentrated, it was almost as though he could _still_ feel it. He'd hardly expected any reciprocation from the lad, and considering it was the first physical contact shared between John and either of the smaller folk… The doctor would be beside himself if there wasn't a task set before him.  
  
"Steady on, Sam," John encouraged, trying to keep the young Winchester from falling into self-flagellation. "Is there anyplace unusual that he might be? Or, have you checked upstairs? I know you've got at least one way in up there." John wanted to put all their options out in the open before he and Sam made any drastic decisions.  
  
Sam flushed, remembering their illicit trip to John's room to return his shoelaces after Sherlock switched them to his shoes. Though Sherlock was fair game for the prank, John was not. He had saved them from being trapped in the jars for who-knew-how-long, and so he got his laces returned instead of pilfered.  
  
“S-sorry about that,” Sam said, stumbling over his words with nerves again. “We, uh. Need ways around.” He shifted in place, antsy. “I didn't go up to your room yet, though. It's a long haul so we don't go unless we need to…” He trailed off uncertainly. Explaining things was harder than it looked. John and Sam didn't have much in common in their lives, something that stood out even more to Sam after the other day when they'd shared stories.  
  
“And then if I check up there and he's down here, I might miss him,” Sam said, staring down at the edge of the shelf, frustrated by his lacking size for the first time in ages. “It shouldn't take this _long_ to search!”  
  
John sighed. Everything he said seemed to either worry Sam more, or make him feel self-conscious. Not for the first time, he wished that their difference in size didn't have such an impact on the way they interacted. Physically, John had all the power in any scenario involving Sam or Dean, but that was the _last_ thing he wanted.  
  
Sam was a person, no less than John. If only nature could allow them to be true equals.  
  
"Then I'll check upstairs," John suggested. "It'll be quicker for me, and if Dean turns up down here, you'll be there to give him hell for the scare." He offered a faint grin, but the effect was all but lost in the true weight of the situation. Dean and Sam had been together all their lives, especially after the curse. John couldn't imagine what Sam was feeling if he tried.  
  
“T-thanks,” Sam said, blinking rapidly. “I’ll… search the kitchen again. I guess. Maybe I missed him or he didn’t hear me calling…”  
  
He didn’t give voice to his worry that Dean might have been hurt and was unconscious somewhere in the flat. It was always possible that one of them could get injured while they were out gathering supplies. A rat could attack or a cat could try and sneak in. Mousetraps were always a possibility, though they both knew to avoid those, and their vision in the dark was strong enough to see the path in front of them.  
  
Sam was about to step back on the path to his home and the kitchen, then paused. “Just call my name when you’re back, okay?” he asked. “I’ll come out when you do.”  
  
"Right." With a resolute nod, John set his laptop on the floor and made his way upstairs. Halfway up, he paused and dropped his gaze. The notion that Dean might be hurt or stranded somewhere hadn't escaped him either, and he had a sudden thought that perhaps Dean had wandered from the upper flat to the stairs. They were steep, each certainly deeper than Dean was tall, so John kept an eye on each one before continuing upwards.  
  
John hesitated in the doorway, scanning the floor for any sign of the elder Winchester. Since John didn't own much, and what little he did was either in his bedroom or the main flat, this space was bare. He couldn't imagine what Dean would be up there for, but it wouldn't hurt to check.  
  
Calling Dean's name through the flat yielded nothing, even when John declared that Sam was worried about him. John was certain that that knowledge would make Dean desperate to reveal himself, even if he was stuck or injured, but there was nothing. Silence in the flat.  
  
A thought hit John on his way carefully down the steps, and he bypassed 221B, continuing his descent to the ground floor. At the bottom, he paused outside the Mrs. Hudson's space, calling her name and then Dean's when there was no response. Wanting to avoid searching through his landlady's things, John called, "If you're down here, you'd better get your arse back to Sam!"  
  
John continued downstairs to the basement flat, which was even more barren than the space his bedroom belonged to. Completely empty and damp, only one wall was papered, and the pattern was ghastly and peeling off. He highly doubted Dean would ever choose to come down there, but all bases needed to be covered.  
  
Still no answer, and John's worry was mounting.  
  
He was on his way upstairs when the main door opened and shut, and he sped up to see who was home. He paled at the sight of Mrs. Hudson slowly ascending the stairs, heading for 221B. Sam was up there, all on his own and in no state of mind to deal with one of the landlady's surprise visits. Heart racing, John hurried to block the older woman from going any further up the narrow staircase.  
  
"Hey," he breathed, forcing a friendly smile to mask his stress.  
  
Mrs. Hudson jumped in surprise, a hand going to her heart. "Oh! Goodness, you gave me a fright, John," she exclaimed with a relieved chuckle.  
  
"Heh, sorry," said John abashedly. "Er, what have you got there?"  
  
"Oh," she chirped, glancing down at the grocery bag in her hand. "Well, I was at the supermarket and I thought of you boys, busy as you are, and I said to myself, I said, 'I'll just pop round and drop off a few things'--"  
  
"Ah, you're very kind," John interrupted, genuinely glad to have Mrs. Hudson around. She kept the flat running like a well-oiled machine, and yet was still unaware of her extra flatmates. "Well, since I'm in, I'll just take that on up, shall I? Don't want to stress your hip now."  
  
Thankfully she conceded, passing the bag to the doctor and retreating into her living quarters with one last plea to keep Sherlock out of trouble. John promised he would, and finally returned to the flat.  
  
"Sam?" John called, entering through the door that led straight to the kitchen. He set the bag on the table and promptly forgot about it.  
  
Sam, already in the kitchen and waiting for John, stepped out into view instantly, his worry for Dean overshadowing any worry he felt about John knowing their usual hiding spots and passages. This was more important, by far. Without Dean around, there wasn’t a point to any of it.  
  
He smoothed one hand against his satchel, some of his nervous energy working its way out through absent fidgeting.  
  
“I didn’t see him in any of the passages,” Sam said, though that was obvious by Dean’s lacking presence. “I was thinking about checking the cabinets if you didn’t have any luck, make sure he didn’t knock anything over himself.” It was always a danger, having something larger than them fall over and knock them out or do worse, but so far they were quick enough on their feet to avoid any lasting injury to anything but pride. Sam finally managed to work his way to the important question. “Did you see him?”  
  
John shook his head, guilt creeping into his eyes. "I looked everywhere, even downstairs. Not a peep."  
  
The suggestion of the cabinets reinforced John's determination. He crossed the room and began throwing open the pantry doors. Mindful of where Sam was at all times, John propped a hand against the counter and reached up to move a few of the larger objects out of the way, peering toward the back of the shelves for any sign of Dean. The idea of finding Sam's brother trapped under something and possibly hurt wasn't pleasant, but it would be _something_. If he _was_ in such condition, the sooner they found him the better.  
  
Sam followed John’s movements from down on the counter, careful to give the doctor a wide berth as he was checking the cabinets. Sam worried his lip as he watched. John moved much faster than Sam could, checking each cabinet thoroughly in a matter of seconds while for either brother it would take minutes or more to check every square inch.  
  
It was nothing short of amazing for Sam to realize that just a month ago, he wouldn’t have seen John’s thorough search with anything close to equanimity. He could remember the first time they were in the cabinet when John came searching for his tea. In order to keep the human from looking, Dean had shoved a teabag at his absently groping hand, and John had gone on his merry way without a clue that a man the size of his finger had passed him the teabag.  
  
Sam found himself missing Dean’s cocky confidence in their abilities, and his constant snark. Without Dean’s quick thinking that day, their discovery might have come that much sooner, John coming face to face with the two tiny men trying to slip out of the cabinet without notice.  
  
As time went on, Sam could feel his own confidence in their search crumpling. “But where else could he be?” he asked himself as John’s search lengthened, his brow furrowed.  
  
John sighed sharply as each cabinet turned up empty. No Dean to be found. With his stress and frustration on the rise, he replaced the items he'd taken out of the cabinets with less care than he'd removed them.  
  
Running a hand through his hair, John's eyes darted around the flat, desperate for an answer to Sam's quiet question. There had to be something, some sign as to where Dean was…  
  
The doctor blanched when his eyes fell on the small table in the main room, half-cleared and covered in newspaper clippings. Sherlock… he'd been on a case.  
  
"Oh, hell no…" murmured John, fishing his mobile out of his pocket. He stared at the table as he dialed Sherlock's number, praying for any tiny amount of movement. Praying he was wrong.  
  
The call rang out to voicemail, Sherlock's pre-recorded baritone taunting John. “ _Shit,_ ” he hissed, hanging up and trying again.  
  
“What?” Sam ran along the counter, trying to follow John’s line of sight from far below and behind the doctor. Skidding to a stop at the edge of the cliff, he fought the temptation to pull out his three-pronged hook and climb down to look. He absently stroked a thumb down the prong that hung out of the bag, using the cool metallic surface to focus.  
  
Sam couldn’t see anything out of the ordinary in the room. Just the normal mess left behind by Sherlock while he was on his case. Dean usually gave the detective’s work area a wide berth while he was working, trying to avoid raising suspicions about their presence in the flat.  
  
Not that it mattered, anymore, with both humans more than aware of their uninvited guests.  
  
“Did you find something? Can you see him?” Sam found himself wishing he could see what John was looking at, but his line of sight was too far down and partially blocked by the doctor.  
  
John turned to Sam as he redialed and listened to the ring. It still gave his heart a flutter to look down at the lad, even as he stood on something as high as the counter. Always there was that brief pang that made him feel so ridiculously _large_. It only reinforced John's fears about what he suspected Sherlock had done.  
  
He bit back another curse when the second call fell through, and he hung up again. This time, he stared at his phone, hand shaking slightly in his vexation. John took a deep breath to steady himself, then focused on Sam.  
  
"How impulsive would you say Dean is?" he queried. He hadn't gotten to know the elder Winchester as well as he had Sam, and if anyone would know the answer to John's question it would be Dean's younger brother.  
  
“Oh, uh…” Sam was caught off guard by the question, and he answered without thinking. “That… really depends. He's pretty methodical when it comes to repairs or checking the perimeter for any threats, but you've seen how he can be with Sherlock if he gets an idea in his head. He'll act first, think _never_ if he's riled enough, and don't count on any apologies.” He smiled at the memory of some of Dean's pranks in the past, including having their thimble of water upended over his head in his sleep.  
  
The smile vanished as John's serious tone sunk in. “W-why? What happened?”  
  
John dragged a hand down his face. He'd been afraid of the confirmation in Sam's answer, and now that he had it, his worry only increased. He almost didn't want to tell Sam what he thought, the poor lad was stressed enough, but he had the right to know John's theory was at _least_ a possibility  
  
"It's just…" Clearing his throat, John gestured toward the detective's workspace. "Sherlock was working on a case all morning. Now he's gone… and so is Dean."

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> One half of each pair is out on a hairbrained trip across the city, and the other half...
> 
> Well, Dean probably shoulda told Sam where he was going.
> 
> **Next:** May 7 th 2017 at 9pm est
> 
> Comments and kudos are love!


	18. The DI

Their arrival at Hyde Park couldn't come soon enough for Sherlock. As soon as the cabbie was paid, the detective was ready to fly out and hurry to the crime scene. He managed to keep his movements smooth enough to avoid throwing Dean into sight or clear off his shoulder, and he moved along the bank of the Serpentine at a fast walk.  
  
He slowed down as he neared the crime scene, ensuring Dean was safely hidden before approaching Lestrade.

[Artwork by mogadeer!](http://mogadeer.deviantart.com/art/com-Shady-Sherlock-645327479)  
  
Of all the New Scotland Yard operatives Sherlock worked with, Detective Inspector Lestrade was the only one willing to really listen to the consulting detective. Sergeant Sally Donovan and Phillip Anderson in Forensics continuously mocked and dismissed Sherlock's deductions, calling him a freak or psychopath, and were continuously humiliated when he turned out to be right.  
  
And, of course, when he intended to humiliate them. Luckily, neither of them seemed to be around, only Lestrade.  
  
"Cutting it a bit close," said the Inspector, his silvery-grey hair a bit disheveled from the wind wafting over the lake.  
  
"I was unavoidably detained," Sherlock explained tersely, angling his occupied shoulder slightly away from Lestrade. Being slightly shorter than Sherlock, the older man was more at risk of seeing Dean if anything went wrong. "Our client felt the need to phone ahead and discuss the details of the case. At length."  
  
Lestrade chuckled dryly. "No wonder you were tied up." Clearly he had personal experience dealing with Henry St. Simon.  
  
Against his better judgment, Dean found himself pushing part of the blue scarf out of the way, just enough so he could peek out at the area around them.  
  
The crisp breeze in the air ruffled the scarf Dean was sitting in, along with Sherlock’s curls and Dean’s spike of dirty blond hair. He waved a hand to try and brush away a dark curl that threatened to make him sneeze, and looked out over the waterfront. It was peaceful and idyllic, a counter to the reason Lestrade was there for, the assumption that a woman had died.  
  
Remembering that the Inspector was likely more aware of his surroundings than other people, Dean slunk down against Sherlock’s shoulder again, trying to shape the scarf so he could see out but no one else could see in.  
  
"What have you got?" said Sherlock, pointedly ignoring Dean's small movements. Just because he felt them didn't necessarily mean they were noticeable to anyone else.  
  
"The dress washed up an hour ago," Lestrade explained, pointing toward the bank. "This spot's about 70 meters from the bridge, along which we found the rest of her possessions--"  
  
"Let me see," Sherlock interrupted, walking ahead of Lestrade toward the line of objects lying on a hastily set up examination table. Shooing away the Forensics B team with help from the Detective Inspector, Sherlock's eyes flickered quickly over the objects.  
  
Lestrade stood across from Sherlock, gesturing to the evidence. "These were dumped off the side of the bridge, all this stuffed in the purse along with some rocks to weigh it down. No fingerprints on anything, the water made sure of that. Most notably, this wallet was emptied of everything-- money, ID, credit cards-- empty except for--"  
  
"The note."  
  
"If I could finish a sentence one of these days, that'd be great," Lestrade sighed. Regardless, he managed a tired grin as Sherlock picked up the airtight bag keeping the note dry and intact. "Lucky find, that. Definitely adds credence to the suspicion of Fiona Dunham, if the initials are anything to-- Hey! That's the wrong side!"  
  
Sherlock scoffed. "Oh, Lestrade, I truly envy you."  
  
Lestrade’s head dropped and he ran a hand down his face. "Envy me. How so?" he asked, having a feeling where this was going. After knowing Sherlock for years, the Inspector had noticed a general formula for Sherlock's insults.  
  
"You and your moral compass, beaten into black and white, right and wrong, by your years of service. It's truly adorable."  
  
Dean dared lean to the side, catching sight of the bag pinched between Sherlock’s fingers. He could remember being caught in those hands, fighting for his life to escape before anything could happen to him and even going so far as to stab Sherlock.  
  
Only a few weeks after those events, here he was invited along on a case and helping Sherlock out. Dean wouldn’t believe it himself if he wasn’t there. Somehow in the last few weeks and hours, he’d graduated from curiosity to asset, and he wasn’t really sure when that had changed.  
  
“Maybe he’ll figure it out without you the _next_ time,” Dean joked, enjoying the fact that only Sherlock could hear him-- and even then, couldn’t exactly respond.  
  
Luckily, Sherlock's brief smirk in the wake of Dean's comment was missed by the Inspector as he heaved a world-weary sigh and rolled his eyes. Deciding to put Lestrade to rest, the detective elucidated. "What I'm looking at is the _other_ side of the note, which is a receipt for a hotel somewhere in London. The names of the specific hotel and recipient have unfortunately been waterlogged, but it's clearly one of the more expensive ones given the purchases." Anyone who charged _that_ much for one glass of wine was very self-assured of their place in the world. "Traces of an address, easy enough to track down."  
  
"If you think you'll find Fiona Dunham there, you won't. We've already arrested her."  
  
Sherlock finally spared a glance at Lestrade, placing the note back on the table. "Oh no, Inspector, I think I'll find Meghan Collins. I'll be in touch." With that, the detective straightened his collar to better conceal his passenger and turned toward the main road.  
  
"Wha-- hey!" exclaimed Lestrade, following after Sherlock. "What about Fiona? She's still a suspect in this case--!"  
  
"Oh yes, you really ought to release her. She had nothing to do with the disappearance of Lord St. Simon's wife, if anything this evidence proves that without a doubt." Sherlock kept a grip on his collar on Dean's side, the side Lestrade happened to be approaching from. As he approached the main road, he hailed a taxi with his free hand.  
  
The Inspector frowned. "Then, you think someone else kidnapped her?"  
  
"I don't think she was kidnapped at all. If you'll excuse me, I've got a cab to catch and a nuptial dispute to clear up. I'll text you the details as they come." As if on cue, the taxi rolled up and Sherlock entered, giving one last call to Lestrade before shutting the door. "Don't send officers!"  
  
“And don’t forget to write!” Dean quipped, his own voice drowned out in the thunderous crack of the car door slamming shut. He leaned back, propping his boots casually up against Sherlock’s collar and crossing his arms behind his head.  
  
“So I’m guessin’ we’re on our way to confront the missus?” Dean asked, watching the reflections in the window over his head, and glad that there was no one sitting outside the car to see his casual pose. There was something about the adventure they were on-- and after so many years in the walls of the London flats, it really _did_ feel like an adventure along the lines of Bilbo’s trek to the Lonely Mountain-- that had him enjoying the brief freedom of the open air.  
  
The corner of Sherlock's lip curled upward as he dug through his pockets for his phone. The elder Winchester didn't miss a beat, and that was a welcome change. John was sharp, sure, but he spent his life _seeing_ rather than _observing_. Whereas, if Dean didn't observe, he didn't survive.  
  
When he turned on the screen, Sherlock immediately disregarded a notification alerting him to four missed calls from John. He swept it aside in favor of opening an empty text message and typing a reply to Dean.  
  
**Indeed,** read his phone when he held it up, **she should be with her first husband.**  
  
Dean smirked, entertained by the answer. “And I’ve got a front-row seat to the show,” he said smugly. First time out of the flat and not only had he seen the Detective Inspector they heard so much about in the walls, but he was also going to see Sherlock confront the assumed-murder-victim-turned-runaway-bride, and _that_ was something he couldn’t wait to see.  
  
Though he still wished Sam could be with them, and at that thought Dean turned back to the window, staring contemplatively up at the sky as he wondered how Sam was doing.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> If only Lestrade knew who Sherlock had along with him on this case... he'd have no evens whatsoever.
> 
> The Study of the Four wraps up May 17th! A sneak peek for the next story to post, Bothering Bowman, the second story in Brothers Found, will be posted on May 18th on the tumblr, and will begin posting on May 21st!
> 
>  **Next:** May 10 th 2017 at 9pm est
> 
> Comments and kudos are love!


	19. Enticing the Flatmate

Sam looked towards the table, his eyes glancing over the newspaper clippings that covered it. In his mind’s eye, he could conjure up an image of Dean, who would pick through those articles any night he could, working through Sherlock’s cases on his own and occasionally coming up with separate lines of inquiry.  
  
He was always so proud when his ideas helped solve the cases.  
  
Could Dean’s curiosity have lured him out into the open near Sherlock?  
  
“Do you think…” Sam hesitated, his worry mounting. “Would Sherlock try and lure Dean out of the walls with no one else around?” He wanted to kick himself for ignoring the murmurs of Sherlock’s deep voice through their walls. He'd assumed the detective was on a phone call, not realizing at the time that if Dean was out there, his voice wouldn’t carry to where their home was nestled, all the way through the walls. “Dean wouldn’t just _leave_ with him, would he? Or… be taken?” All Sam’s greatest fears were balled up in that single word. Taken away against his will. Just like when they were kids.  
  
"What? No!" said John, quick to defend his flatmate. But the more he thought about it, the more he realized that it wasn't _completely_ out of Sherlock's purview. "Well… God, I hope not," he amended.  
  
Shaking his head to redirect his thoughts, John knelt next to the counter. "Look, I don't know what did happen, but one way or another… They've gotta be together." He met Sam's gaze with a hopeful look in his eyes. "I know it must be hard to believe after everything he put you through, but I honestly don't think Sherlock would just _kidnap_ Dean. It's not like him."  
  
 _Entice_ Dean with a particularly interesting case? John could see that. Perhaps _convince_ him to come along after he found more evidence? Yeah. Even so, it sickened John to think of Sherlock dashing off with Dean against the smaller man's will.  
  
“I… hope you’re right…” Sam said, tentatively hanging onto the thread of hope John was offering. He wanted to think the best of people, and even after Sherlock’s quick actions the other week, Sam let himself believe John. “I just wish, if they went out together, they just would have _told_ me.”  
  
Sam and Dean might live in the flat, but they didn’t _know_ these humans. Not the way they knew each other. Listening in on conversations wasn’t the same as actually taking part in them, and they never saw what happened when the two men left the flat.  
  
“I hope they get back soon…” Sam said, his voice small and quiet in the huge flat.  
  
John nodded solemnly. "Me, too," he whispered, as if in attempt to mimic Sam's tone.  
  
With a sharp exhale and a grunt, John stood and lifted his phone again. "I'll keep calling," he assured the younger Winchester even as he dialed. "Sit tight, kid."  
  
The doctor wandered away from the counter while the phone rang, pinching his eyes as he silently fretted about what Sherlock and Dean could be getting up to out there. If anything happened to Dean… Hell, even if both of them made it back in one piece, Sherlock was more than deserving of a good punch for Sam's distress alone.  
  


* * *

  
Sherlock returned to the flat, feeling satisfied at last.  
  
It had been a breeze to find the correct hotel; incidentally, it was one street over from Baker Street and a few blocks down. Then all he had to do was flash the police badge he'd filched from Lestrade ages ago at the front desk, and they told him exactly which room to go to.  
  
There, he found Meghan Collins and Franklin Dawn, her _first_ husband.  
  
After he explained who he was and why he was there, the two sat him down and explained everything. They met many years ago in San Francisco, dated for ages and were prepared to get married. Of course, then her father came into money-- boatloads of it-- and all that power and status went to his head. He forbade the marriage, vowing that he would not contribute a _cent_ to their union.  
  
Meghan, strong-headed as she was, would not take no for an answer. Not caring that Frank and his family were dirt poor, she ran away with him to Vegas and they were wed overnight.  
  
Still, Franklin was worried about not being able to support Meghan if they ran away for good. She was building a strong career on her own in San Francisco. Rather than make her start over, Frank insisted that she stay at home and continue on her chosen path. He would roam the country until he made something of himself and returned to her with a savings and a secure life.  
  
Feeling safe in the fact that they were already legally married, Meghan happily wished him luck and sent him off. He sent her regular emails for months, informing her of where he was and spinning tales of life on the road. Then, nearly a year after this endeavor began, she received word of an explosion at the factory he'd just started at. Frank's name fell under the list of the dead.  
  
Meghan was never the same after that. Years later, her father gathered many of his more high-profile (and conveniently single) cohorts together for a banquet that she was strongly encouraged to attend. The match-making ploy was not lost on her, yet she attended anyway in hopes that she could find some enjoyment.  
  
Then she met Henry, and the rest was history.  
  
Or it would have been, if Franklin hadn't showed up at the wedding. After the accident in the factory, he'd fallen into a coma for nearly two years. It was a miracle when he woke up, but his heart broke when he learned that Meghan thought he was dead. For all he knew, she had grieved and moved on. He became determined to come into his own fortune and prove his devotion to her once and for all. When he heard about her match to Lord St. Simon, his determination only grew.  
  
Meghan had been so shocked to see him alive that she froze partway down the aisle, and the bouquet slipped out of her hand in shock. Frank beckoned for her to be quiet, but passed her a note as he handed the flowers back to her. She read it after the ceremony, once she was out of sight, and her mind was made up.  
  
Now she and Franklin were preparing to leave the hotel discretely and catch the next flight back to California. Sherlock merely informed them that he didn't care what they did, but insisted that they tell St. Simon the whole story rather than leave without a word.  
  
Sherlock decided to walk back to the flat. It wasn't far, and neither he nor Dean Winchester knew if they were going to be doing this again anytime soon. He'd noticed the little fellow seemed to enjoy their brief moments in the open air between cabs and buildings; understandable since Sherlock doubted he and Sam ever left the safety of the flat, much less in the middle of the day.  
  
The detective closed the ground floor door to the flat with a long sigh. "Well, we survived," he murmured to Dean, fighting the urge to turn his head and try to look at the small man on his shoulder. "Ready for the stairs again?"  
  
Dean gripped the edge of the jacket collar, grinning a challenge for the stairs. “After today? I’m ready for _anything,_ ” he boasted, full of pride from seeing the case through to the end and riding the high. There was nothing like the sweet taste of victory.  
  
Finding the girl at the hotel, just like they’d thought ( _deduced,_ as Sherlock would say), was a moment Dean had looked forward to. It was a case where no one had gotten hurt, unless they included heartbreak for St. Simon, with his new wife planning on running off with her old husband. _That’s the way the cookie crumbles,_ Dean thought, his mind wandering towards the food they had hidden at home and what he could possibly scrounge up for a victory meal.  
  
The fact that he was seeing everything from Sherlock’s shoulder bothered Dean less and less throughout the day, though he sometimes did find himself clinging to the fabric if he made the mistake of glancing down. He had the best view of the case, and kept up a constant litany of snark for Sherlock to keep track of, all too quiet for anyone else to hear.  
  
Dean put his other hand on the blue scarf to secure himself against Sherlock. “One stairwell won’t hold us back.” _Going up_ has _to be better than going down._  
  
Sherlock smirked. Dean hadn't yet failed to deliver a witty one-liner or otherwise snarky remark. There were several moments during the missing bride's story when Dean piped up and Sherlock had to make an effort to hide his mirth. Luckily, the impassioned lovers seemed more caught up in recalling the events that brought them to that hotel room than Sherlock's facial expressions.  
  
Assured that Dean was prepared for the journey, Sherlock started up the stairs, trying to step as smoothly as possible while keeping a steady pace.  
  


* * *

  
John perked up the second he heard the front door open and shut. He glanced at Sam as he listened. The muffled rumble of Sherlock's voice confirmed that the detective was back.  
  
The doctor's hands clenched into fists at the creak of the staircase, and he stormed into the main room. He'd stayed in the kitchen with Sam while he called his flatmate to no avail, but now that the object of all their worry and stress was about to enter, all formalities left John's head.  
  
He paced the living room anxiously for a moment until the door finally swung open and the detective entered, giving John someone to round on.  
  
" _Where is Dean?_ " he seethed, the intensity of the demand condensed into a hiss.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Home from a successful case! Only to find... They're in trouble >o<
> 
> **Next:** May 14 th 2017 at 9pm est
> 
> Comments and kudos are love!


	20. Dean's Knack

Sam blinked as John left him behind, not expecting the residual tingle from being watched to vanish so quickly. No matter how many times he watched a human walk across the room, he could never believe how _fast_ they were. Able to clear the distance Sam ran in seconds, though today he wasn’t afraid of being caught.  
  
Instead, his problem was the fact that he’d been left behind, and from the sound of things, Sherlock was about to come in.  
  
Thinking fast, Sam grabbed his hook from his bag, unwinding the black thread as he ran. He had to be quick if he wanted to see _anything_.  
  
Maybe it was a good thing Dean wasn’t around. He _hated_ when Sam did this.  
  
Jumping off the edge of the counter, Sam caught the edge with his hook in one smooth, _reckless_ motion, anchoring him even as he let the thread slip through his hands. In order to save his hand from getting a rash, he used his sleeve to tighten around the thread, and by the time he landed on the kitchen floor, he was moving slow enough to land with an inaudible thud.  
  
Flicking his wrist, Sam jarred the three-pronged hook from the top of the counter, now looming far over his head. The perspective didn’t bother him, as adjusted to it as he was. The only thing about this situation that really gave him pause was imagining the sight of John and Sherlock from all the way down on the _floor._  
  
But _Dean._  
  
Sam was already winding the hook around his arm as he ran, listening to the door open.  
  


* * *

  
On Sherlock’s shoulder, Dean leaned forward, pushing the blue scarf out of his way so he’d be visible. “What’s up, doc?” he called, looking forward to letting the others know how they’d solved the case together. Spotting the look on John’s face, Dean paused, suddenly not as sure of himself when he realized John was _upset._ He’d never seen the doctor look so angry before, and his hand tightened on the scarf to hide his nerves.  
  
Sherlock frowned at John's evident anger, only vaguely aware of what might have brought it on. The movement and subsequent amiable greeting from the man on his shoulder offered a helpful clue.  
  
"You're cross with me," the detective inferred.  
  
" _Yes,_ I am cross with you!" John let out a long breath and rubbed his face, trying to calm himself down. He was torn between relief, seeing Dean was alright and seemed to have gone with Sherlock of his own volition, and distress at the sight of the tiny Winchester on Sherlock's shoulder, suspended nearly two meters in the air and practically swimming in the detective's scarf. "What were you two thinking? Never mind what might have happened if someone saw Dean, but you _cannot_ just leave together without warning! You had Sam worried half to death!"  
  
“Ah, c’mon, doc!” Dean said, trying to brush away the concern with his normal devil-may-care attitude. He straightened up, finding that he was sitting on a level plane with John’s eyes and didn’t have to crane his neck to stare back at him. “I was fine the whole time! And once I tell Sam about _this,_ he’ll--”  
  
“He’ll _what?_ ”  
  
Dean was cut off by a voice, yelled up at him from the floor. His, along with both humans' eyes dropped to the floor, that voice carrying impressively far for a four-inch-tall man. Dean’s eyes went wide at the sight of Sam, standing to the side of John and a few inches in front. Between the two humans, he looked _small_.  
  
But even from all the way up in the air, Dean could see the bitchface looking up at him, and he could just imagine the steel in those hazel eyes when Sam planted his hands on his hips.  
  
“Dean, what the hell?!” Sam fumed, none of the vitriol in his voice dampened by the distance separating them. “I’ve been looking for you _everywhere._ You didn’t leave a note, stop in, _tell_ me, and now you just come sauntering back like nothing ever happened?!”  
  
Sherlock's brow rose a touch, impressed by the show of bravery the younger Winchester was displaying. Fighting his natural instincts to stay far away from people who were relative giants, all in the name of chastising his brother… If Sherlock were not already convinced that Sam and Dean were people, that would have clinched it.   
  
They could be just as confusing as humans.  
  
John, meanwhile, was having a more visceral reaction. The second the doctor saw Sam on the floor, so _close_ to his feet, his breath caught in his throat and his heart plummeted to the ground. This had to be the most precarious position Sam had put himself in; it took every ounce of strength John had to not shuffle away, fearing that even that action would disrupt the absolutely tiny man on the floor. John had never felt dangerously _large_ , and he squeezed his eyes shut and took a few deep breaths until the vertigo passed.  
  
John felt like a _skyscraper_.  
  
"I'm sure we'd all love to argue the details of what happened today," Sherlock interjected, his voice even and low for the sake of the smaller ears nearby, "but this all seems terribly uneven. Perhaps a 'house meeting' would be sufficient."  
  
The detective's icy blue-greens flicked over to the armchairs in front of the fireplace, using minimal movement for the sake of his passenger. There, he and John could sit and tower over the smaller folk a little less, and the Winchesters could find someplace suitable for their own argument.  
  
John glanced back at the chairs, sighing softly as he worked up the nerve to glance down at Sam. "I'm alright if you're alright," he murmured with one more wary glance at Dean on Sherlock's shoulder. How the hell that even _happened_ eluded the doctor, given how antagonistic they'd been with each other not long ago.  
  
“Oh, I’m _fine,_ ” Sam said, still fuming on the inside. Everything else, the scale of the room, the giants looming overhead, it was all forgotten for the sight of Dean casually sitting on Sherlock’s shoulder.  
  
Off _gallivanting_ around the town while Sam was left behind to fret.  
  
Sam turned on his heel and stalked off, angrily uncoiling his hook. “Don’t think I’m just going to drop this!” he shouted over his shoulder as he stomped over towards John’s chair, letting his hook slide off his shoulder.  
  
Dean’s skills might result in his hook always hitting the mark, but Sam had his own. The second his hook latched onto John’s armchair, he was shimmying up, his speed and confidence far outstripping his older brother’s. In record time, he was standing on the arm of the chair with his arms crossed.  
  
“Well?”  
  
Forgetting his trepidation, John watched Sam dash across the floor and _climb onto his chair_ with unmasked awe. Not only was it amazing to see Sam's prowess firsthand, but there was a fire in the young Winchester that John hadn't seen before. Suddenly the little fella didn't seem so small and helpless.  
  
He blinked at Sam's pointed word, exchanging a look with Sherlock and Dean before stepping carefully across the room. Sherlock followed, and both humans sank carefully into their respective chairs, mindful of their smaller counterparts. John leaned an elbow against the arm opposite the one Sam had claimed. Sherlock shifted a little, slightly adjusting his long coat even as he sat on it. He’d take the risk of throwing Dean off his shoulder if he took it off, so it stayed on and Sherlock folded his hands in his lap.  
  
"Just-- What I don't get is how this all happened at all," said John, rubbing his temple in confusion. "I thought you two hated each other."  
  
“I don’t _hate_ him,” Dean protested, trying to untangle himself from the scarf so he could argue from a better position. “Maybe _actively disliked_ him for a bit there--”  
  
Sam gave Dean a flat glare, not buying into it. Nothing in his attitude gave away the fact that he was arguing with his older brother across a chasm separating the two armchairs, both guarded by giants. “So you just decided to go for a joyride? You didn’t think to yourself _oh, I should tell Sam where I’m going. He’ll_ totally _worry about me while I’m out._ ”  
  
“That had nothing to do with it!” Dean looked like a kicked puppy, giving up on his attempt to escape the fabric. “Sherlock was working on a case, and I was just curious about it so I popped in to listen to his phone call…”  
  
John lifted a suspicious eyebrow at Sherlock. "Phone call?" he repeated.  
  
"Yes, the client insisted on discussing the details from the comfort of his mansion and didn’t consider sending me an invitation." Absently, Sherlock brought up a hand to scratch at his neck just above where Dean was squirming. Then it moved on to lightly pick at the fabric the small man had firmly wrapped around himself. "I put it on speaker so I could access my computer at the same time, and Dean happened to be listening."  
  
Sherlock's gaze lowered to Sam, who was still visibly upset. "Dean expressed interest in the case and participated in gathering the necessary information. Together, we solved the case without leaving the flat. Of course, I _did_ have to leave in order to prove I'd solved it, put the police on the right track, and ensure the case had closure. I simply invited Dean along, since he played a major role."  
  
“And at some point in all this, you didn’t think to come tell me?” Sam insisted, staring daggers at Dean.  
  
With Sherlock anchoring the scarf, Dean freed himself with a strangled grunt, practically tumbling over Sherlock’s collar to get out where he had more space. Arguing from a giant’s shoulder was turning out to be the worst place for it.  
  
“I woulda!” Dean said defensively, brushing his jacket off as he straightened in place. The second he got a look at how steep the drop off was from the shoulder, he grabbed onto the edge of the collar again. “There wasn’t any _time_ to get back to the room. We barely made it there as it was!”  
  
"Made it where? Where did you go?" For whatever reason, John found that his ire was dwindling in favor of confusion. Perhaps it was because Sam was right there, humbling John with his very presence and harboring more than enough anger for the pair of them.  
  
Sherlock flattened his nearby hand into a platform, sensing the tension from the scrambling little form on his shoulder. "The Serpentine," he answered simply, as though it were obvious.  
  
John's eyes widened. _There_ was the outrage.  
  
"You went all the way to Hyde Park like _that?_ ” John emphasized, gesturing to the bizarre setup on Sherlock's shoulder.  
  
Sherlock nodded once, unfazed by John's sudden intensity. "He remained hidden, and we investigated the evidence that _you_ so helpfully pointed out."  
  
"I didn't think you were gonna take Dean!" With a huff, John sat back in his chair, feeling heat rise from his neck. He had no trouble remembering why he was so aggravated in the first place.  
  
“I’m not a damn kid!” Dean said, stalking onto Sherlock’s hand. Now, he looked as aggravated as Sam felt about the entire situation, both brothers’ mirroring the other’s stance. “I can make my own decisions over here, and _I’m_ the one that agreed to come! He didn’t _take_ me anywhere.” He despised the way John and Sherlock were talking over his head.  
  
The doctor blinked at Dean's retort. He hadn't put much thought to it, but considering the brothers were younger than John and Sherlock by ten years at the least, John _did_ sometimes view them as kids. Age difference aside, the Winchesters were both adults, and in light of their past experience with humans, John resolved that he would have to be more mindful of how he treated them. It wouldn’t do to come off as patronizing or condescending, that was the last thing John wanted.  
  
With John sufficiently scolded, Dean forced himself to stare at Sam like no one else was around, across the gap separating them. “Sam, I would have told you if I could. But there was no time, and I didn’t want to take the risk of anyone finding out where we live. I didn’t know if I’d ever get another chance like this, and--"  
  
“--And you didn’t want to miss it,” Sam finished. “I get it.” He frowned. Their size chafed at Dean more than Sam, in more ways than one. Being able to help someone himself, even if by proxy, would go a long way in easing the strain Dean felt everyday he was small enough to trap in a birdcage. Sam sighed. “Look, just promise me you won’t do anything reckless, okay?” His eyes were shining as he glanced up at Dean again, unable to believe his older brother, of all people, was _standing in a hand_. “I can’t lose you. You’re all I have.”  
  
Dean swallowed. “I will always be here to look after you,” he swore.  
  
Sherlock hesitated before lowering the hand holding Dean to the arm of his chair directly across from Sam, momentarily intrigued by the shift in their argument. Once his hand was empty, he took it back and pressed it to the other in a prayer-like pose, turning to John for their next move.  
  
John didn’t disappoint him. "Look, if this ever happens again-- and I hope to God you two won't make a habit of this-- but if it does, we just need a system so that nobody is left in the dark. You either tell Sam where you're going or leave a note where he can find it, and you let me know, too, just in case the information doesn't get to him."  
  
Dean looked thoughtful, most of the attitude gone from his bearing. “Maybe something in the kitchen…” he mused. It wasn’t like the humans didn’t know they had ways in and out of that room after all the times they’d either been caught in there, or confronted the humans in there.  
  
“You better not forget,” Sam said severely. “I don’t want to go through this again.”  
  
“Deal!” Dean said, quick to go for the punch line.  
  
“Not so fast!” Sam said, cutting him off. “ _And_ you’re on water duty for a month.”  
  
“One week.”  
  
“ _Two._ ”  
  
Dean pursed his lips. “I can live with that,” he decided, conceding the argument before it turned on him again. They had a container of water they would fill up once a day in their small home. With some help from his adopted father, Dean had tapped into the water supply that went to the kitchen sink. It required some climbing to get up and down to the pipes, but not enough to give even Dean a problem, one thing he’d checked before deciding to move in.  
  
“So, what was it like?” Sam asked, his curiosity aroused now that the panic was over.  
  
“Dude, we got to go to the _waterfront,_ ” Dean said, warming to the subject. “The Detective Inspector never even noticed me.”  
  
John took a steadying breath, the idea of Sherlock directly interacting with someone while Dean was _right there_ starting to stress him out all over again. He forced a dry grin, trying to remain supportive. "You spoke to Lestrade."  
  
"Of course I spoke to Lestrade," Sherlock acknowledged, shrugging now that he was free to do so without someone griping in his ear about it. The detective frowned at the doctor for interrupting the exchange between Sam and Dean, from which Sherlock was surreptitiously gleaning all sorts of little details.  
  
John shook his head, amazed that Sherlock could just take all this in stride. "Well, you can't do that forever, he's not an idiot."  
  
“ _Mm--_ ”  
  
"He's _sharper_ than you give him credit for," John amended, knowing how quick Sherlock was to talk down practically everyone's intelligence, especially those at Scotland Yard.  
  
“It’s not like I was about to lean out where he could see me while he was _right there,_ ” Dean said, interrupting John and Sherlock before the argument could drag out. “And ‘sides, if Sam comes the next time, we’ll be able to tell if anyone’s going to try lookin’ in our direction. Piece of cake.”  
  
Sam’s lips thinned. “Or we’ll be hiding the entire time,” he countered, “since it’s not as accurate when there’s more than one person around! It’s hard enough to tell with just _two_ humans in the room, can you imagine five? Or more?”  
  
“That’s why you’ve got to try honing it,” Dean said, growing intrigued at the thought. “Can you imagine being able to pick out one person in an entire crowd? We’d know just who to avoid if it was that refined.”  
  
Sherlock's head tilted as the brothers' conversation sparked his interest. The implication of a chore to fetch water was one thing, nowhere _near_ as fascinating as an allusion to some kind of ability to know when one was being seen or sought out.  
  
He leaned forward, planting his elbows on his knees and lacing his fingers in front of his chin. His eyes darted between Sam and Dean, his mind spinning with questions. _How_ was an obvious one, though not particularly productive given the direction the conversation was taking. In any case, Sherlock wasn't sure if he'd like the answer to that one; he was still reluctant to believe in the curse they claimed to be victims of.  
  
"If you're able to sense when you're being observed," Sherlock began, focusing first on Sam before turning his veiled bemusement to Dean, "then why can't _you?_ What sort of skill do you harbor, if not that?"  
  
“Wouldn’t you like to know,” Dean said, his hand twitching as he resisted the impulse to reach for his knife. Sherlock almost leaning over him had come unexpectedly, and he cursed himself for the slip-up. “Nothing I can do is as useful as Sam, anyway.”  
  
“That’s not what you said when you were getting the shoelaces from their hiding spots the other week!” Sam taunted, taking advantage of the distance from Dean to get revenge for being left out of the day’s events.  
  
John's brow shot up-- not just from Sam's revelation of Dean's knack, but the sheer _cheek_ with which Sam had delivered it. The doctor chuckled, watching the new information sink in for Sherlock.  
  
"Ahh, that's how you did it," mused the detective, not an ounce of annoyance in his tone in favor of pure intrigue. "No matter where I hid them, you always found them. I daresay if you nailed that down, you'd be giving Sam here a run for his money."  
  
A slow smirk played at Sherlock's lips to match the impressed gleam in his eye. The possibilities that came with the knowledge of these talents threatened to overshadow the questions Sherlock had about them.  
  
“It’s _survival,_ ” Dean said firmly, keeping his boots planted. “Sam watches our back and I find what we need to make it one more week. If our pantry’s empty, we _need_ to find food, and sometimes my knack’s the only way.”  
  
“But it doesn’t do you any good if you get _caught,_ ” Sam stated dryly, remembering the day Sherlock had done just that.  
  
Dean jabbed a finger at Sam. “You were with me!”  
  
“I _told_ you I felt something!”  
  
"But it doesn't have to be about survival anymore," Sherlock insisted. "You two are hardly a secret from John and me at this point, and we have a ready supply of food and materials at your disposal."  
  
"Sherlock--" John's tone was low and warning, but Sherlock was on a roll.  
  
"Don't you _see?_ " the detective barreled on. "You two have skills that we could never hope to have. If you could in fact improve them, strengthen them, you could find anything, hide from anyone! You would be _unmatched._ ”  
  
Both brothers turned towards Sherlock when he joined into their argument. Sam looked thoughtful and Dean bristled.  
  
“We don’t need anyone’s charity!” he shot back instantly. “We made it this far on our own, you don’t have to look after us like some _pets!_ ”  
  
“Dean--"  
  
Dean ignored Sam’s attempt to interrupt, plowing right through. “We’re not about to rely on handouts to feed ourselves. I kept us going when they set _mousetraps_ in the walls, we _always_ find--"  
  
“ _Dean!_ ”  
  
Dean reeled off balance at Sam’s shout, staring at his younger brother in surprise.  
  
Sam held up his hands placatingly. “Maybe we should at least hear them out,” he offered.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Dean and his _active dislike_ of Sherlock, the revelation of the knacks and an oddly forward offer from Sherlock result in a tumultuous chapter! See the resolution of a crazy chain of events this Wednesday!
> 
> **Last:** May 17 th 2017 at 9pm est
> 
> Comments and kudos are love! They let us know what we're doing right or wrong, and help with future plans for the story! Study might be wrapping up but there is far, _far_ more in the works for the crew of **Brothers Consulted!**


	21. Crazier Than Monsters

Sherlock sat slowly back in his chair while Dean admonished him, recognizing an error in his approach and knowing better than to cut Dean off. They both knew Sherlock's voice could easily overpower the smaller man's, and exercising that advantage would only prove Dean right.  
  
The detective blinked when Sam interrupted his brother. If he didn't know any better, he'd say the younger Winchester was standing up for him. Dismissing that idea, Sherlock glanced at John, who was caught between shooting a flat look at Sherlock and meaningful glances at the brothers. He felt like he was missing something important, but he also got the sense from his colleague that he was on his own in amending his phrasing.  
  
"It wasn't my intention to imply that you are to be taken care of, and certainly not that John and I own you."  
  
"Damn right," John couldn't help but mutter.  
  
"Rather, I was pointing out that what's ours is yours. But that's not the important bit." Sherlock laced his fingers and leaned slightly forward. "What I'm trying to explain is that we are all assets to each other. Respectively, we make excellent partners. But if we combined our resources and got better at using them, we could all be… _spectacular._ "  
  
John gaped at Sherlock. His flatmate was hardly one for flashy language, or passion for anything besides murder, and while the detective had kept an even tone throughout his spiel, it was hard to ignore the excitement leaking through.  
  
Dean stared at Sherlock, trying to pierce through his intense gaze. He was good at reading people, but the detective had always come off as an enigma. The size difference _should_ help him see any tells, yet with Sherlock it didn’t work.  
  
Before answering, he glanced over at Sam to see if they were on the same page. The distance between them didn’t harm their silent communication. Years of living and working together meant that the brothers, despite any dispute or argument they might have, could understand a lot with a single look.  
  
Turning away from Sam and John, Dean craned his neck back to be able to meet Sherlock in the eye. “You’re proposing we work together? Like a team? Not just me and Sam or you and John, but all _four_ of us?”  
  
Sherlock shrugged. "Why not? We live together, we may as well work together." He looked to his colleague, hoping for support. "John? Thoughts?"  
  
John's mouth opened and shut a few times as he floundered, glancing between the brothers and Sherlock. Admittedly, the idea of working alongside Sam and Dean, even just from the safety of the flat, appealed to him greatly, but he didn't want them to feel pressured into anything if they disagreed.  
  
"Whatever you two decide, I'm all for it," said John, offering an encouraging smile to the Winchesters.  
  
Dean’s jaw firmed as he thought it over. He had Sam’s support in whatever he chose. Sam knew he would do what was best for them, no matter how reckless he might look to an outsider. Then there was the fact that Sam was still a little uncomfortable dealing with Sherlock, despite his headstrong rampage to flay Dean with words after running off. Dean couldn’t let him down.  
  
This was going beyond ‘No traps or we’re gone.’ This was actually agreeing to work alongside the humans. Today’s case could be seen as a trial run, and it had been _fun_. Dean not only helped, but he’d gone out to finish the case with Sherlock. For Sam to have the chance to leave the walls and see the world they lived in would mean the world to Dean. His little brother wasn’t meant to spend his life wasting away, out of sight, out of mind. Dean could see the screen of Sherlock’s phone from the ride to the waterfront, the letters as tall as Dean’s hand spelling out a message.  
  
**Maybe he will one day**.  
  
But only if this worked.  
  
Dean was still cautious as he talked. “If you want to make a go of it, we’re up for trying. Just a few ground rules need to be laid out. No grabbing either of us, unless it’s an emergency. And I’m not talkin’ you’re in a hurry emergency-- life and death here. After what we’ve been through, grabbing is _not_ cool. No mousetraps in the flat, either. If pests get in, we’ll take care of them. I’m not going to be the one consoling Sam when his favorite mouse gets hit.”  
  
“Hey!” Sam protested, turning red at the mention of one of the few animals he’d ever tried to raise in his life. They’d had to take his pup back to her mom when she tried to take over Dean’s nest as her own, but she liked to visit her old friend from time to time as she aged.  
  
Dean gestured for quiet, sending Sam an understanding look. “And we’ll earn our keep. We’re not charity or pity cases. We worked hard to make it this far on our own.” He paused, thinking through what he’d said. “If that suits, I think we can make this work.” He held out a hand.  
  
There was a sparkle in Sherlock's eyes as he stared down at the offered hand. While he'd hoped his suggestion would work out, a part of him had doubted. The detective was more than eager to accept Dean's conditions, but he glanced at John first. He had an equal part in the decision.  
  
John blinked rapidly, not quite believing this was happening. The shock and awe of the entire situation had finally caught up with him, and he realized this was a rare opportunity. Two humans and two tiny brothers who used to be human, negotiating a professional relationship. Numbly registering the expectant look Sherlock was giving him, John nodded in agreement with Dean's terms.  
  
A smirk bloomed across Sherlock's features, and he turned back to Dean. "Deal," he declared, lightly pinching the smaller man's hand and shaking it once, more carefully than he'd done anything in his life.  
  
John let out a long breath, feeling a weight lift off of his chest. This was the last place he'd expected this conversation to go, but he could sense this was the start of something… different.  
  
"Right then," he grinned, leaning forward slightly in his chair. "I look forward to our, ah, partnership."  
  
Sam shook his head, barely able to believe everything that had happened himself. Just that morning he never would have thought he’d find Dean and Sherlock working together so smoothly, and he was planning on dragging the story out of Dean for _exactly_ how it happened later that night. For now…  
  
“Should we do a toast?” Sam asked, trying to remember what he knew of closing deals from childhood. Really, most of what he knew now was vicariously learned from watching other humans live and peeking at the television when he got the chance, leaving gaping holes in his experience. “We could grab some water for it…”  
  
Dean brightened at that, the mention of drinks reminding him of something else. “Dude,” he said to Sherlock, “this means _coffee_ in the mornings if I’m helping, right? I haven’t had coffee in _ages._ ”  
  
Sherlock sniggered at Dean's sudden excitement. _Whatever happened to 'absolutely no handouts?’_  
  
"Only if you're good," he jested, giving Dean's shoulder a faint nudge with his knuckle. Dean batted at the hand with a predictable glare on his face, but he didn’t move for his knife like he would have not long ago.  
  
John ran a hand down his face, completely floored by what he was watching. What he was actively participating in. Distantly, he pondered over where he'd be without Sherlock Holmes. Still limping, miserable, alone, and certainly not in such an amicable position with a pair of individuals shorter than a finger.  
  
"I don't think a toast will be necessary, Sam," answered the doctor. "Tell you what, though, I'd say it's high time for lunch. Mrs. Hudson picked us up some groceries earlier, betcha we could scrape up something decent."  
  
“I guess we could celebrate them finishing the case…” Sam said hesitantly, always worried about taking food he’d done nothing to earn himself.  
  
“Don’t worry so much,” Dean said dismissively. He dug out his hook so he could get down from the armchair on his own. “We were running low on supplies anyway.”  
  
Sam followed suit, unhooking his rope from his arm. “We’ll meet you in the kitchen?” he offered John shyly.  
  
John smiled and nodded, glad that Dean was helping Sam begin to accept his innocuous invitation to a meal. Though he would never view it as _feeding_ the brothers, John took comfort in the notion that he could help improve their diets over time, supply fresh fruit, veg, and proteins that the miniature men hadn't had easy access to before.  
  
"Sounds good," John agreed. "See you there, I guess. Um, safe travels?" He trailed off uncertainly, not entirely sure how to leave off since they'd be seeing each other again momentarily.  
  
Sam glanced across the gap to see Dean hook himself to the side and begin his slow climb down, extra halting and hesitant in case Sherlock moved and threatened to jar his grip. Nodding to himself that Dean would be fine until Sam got his hands on him, Sam took his three pronged hook and leaned off the edge of the arm to assess the height to the ground.  
  
Then he jumped, twisted, and caught the edge of the chair with the hook, falling smoothly into his normal rhythm and beating Dean to the ground by a half minute.  
  
John's heart jumped into his throat in reaction to Sam's leap and he froze, eyes wide, afraid to breathe as he waited for some sign of the lad's grievous impact on the floor. It never came, and soon enough the hook was jostled from its spot and disappeared as well. Heaving a relieved sigh, John clutched at his chest, willing his pounding pulse to slow.  
  
Those Winchesters were gonna be the death of him, he just knew it.  
  
Contrariwise, Sherlock was sitting straight and tall in his chair, peering over the edge of the arm to gauge Dean's descent. His frozen stance came from calculated concentration rather than stress like John's had.  
  
John had to admit, watching Dean climb down more slowly from a short distance, that he really shouldn't worry. This was clearly a mode of transportation the brothers were accustomed to, as normal for them as taking a cab was for John and Sherlock.  
  
“Dude!” Dean griped at Sam as he walked over, ignoring the humans watching them overhead. “I told you not to do that if it wasn’t an emergency, remember?”  
  
As soon as Dean was within reach, Sam punched him in the shoulder, sending him reeling into the side of the fireplace. “And _you_ just left me here on my own without telling me ahead of time!” Sam snapped back, “so don’t be complaining just because you can’t keep up with my climbing.”  
  
He held out a hand and helped pick Dean up off the ground. Dean rubbed his arm, giving Sam a suspicious look in case he was going to strike again, but Sam figured one surprise attack was enough. He let Dean lead the way towards the wall.  
  
Once Sam and Dean were gone, the doctor and the detective exchanged glances. "So, groceries?" Sherlock queried, hopping up and heading to the kitchen with long strides as though nothing out of the ordinary had occurred.  
  
"Yeah," John chuckled, carefully getting up to join him. At this rate, he'd be walking on eggshells for weeks. "You know Mrs. Hudson. She does love to dote on us."  
  
"And she says she's not our housekeeper," smirked Sherlock, methodically removing items from the plastic bag.  
  
John shook his head, reviewing the options laid out. Between Mrs. Hudson's kindness and the fridge, there was plenty for sandwiches. Then again, they also had sausage and bacon, which John remembered Dean had a distinct appreciation for. Perhaps he'd leave that option open. In any case, bacon was still good on a sandwich.  
  


* * *

  
Even passage through the walls was much easier for Sam and Dean than it had been a month ago.  
  
After the confrontation with Sherlock over his missing shoelaces, Dean had kept every inch of twine he'd taken, carefully hoarded and rolled up to the side of their storage room and almost covering the shelves he’d designed. The last pair of shoelaces remained pushed to the side of the supply room, a trophy of his triumph he wasn’t likely to let go. The twine, on the other hand, was quickly used.  
  
Throughout the walls, there was now twine at every point they used to need their hooks for. It was tied and strung up so as to make steady climbing, and Dean was toying with the idea of making a small lift for them to have an easier time getting the water up to their home from the ground. He had extra materials left over for the first time.  
  
And maybe, the promise of more if Sherlock's offer of a partnership held fast.  
  
Sam shook his head in shock. “Did that really just happen?” he asked, partially convinced he’d dreamt it all up.  
  
Dean grinned. “You know it,” he boasted, still on the high from completing the case. Sam’s angry scolding was not enough to dampen the thrill of success and watching it all come together.  
  
“So what was it really like?” Sam asked as he held out the twine for Dean to take. “You didn’t get to say earlier what being outside was like.”  
  
Dean stuck his lip out thoughtfully. “Fast,” he admitted, “and high. I stayed pretty far back in the scarf.”  
  
“Was the vertigo bad?” Sam asked understandingly.  
  
“Nah. Not like I thought it would be. Once we got past the first trip down the stairs, there was too much going on to focus on it.” Dean shook his head slowly, then started his climb up the twine. “It was all worth it, too. We found the girl that was missing and told her to let her new husband know what happened. She wanted to run off with her old husband and leave him hanging.”  
  
“People,” Sam sighed. Since the twine was strongly anchored at the top, he started on his way up once Dean reached the halfway point.  
  
“Crazier than monsters.”  
  
They both reached the top, Sam closing in on Dean swiftly. Their lives had changed, and as they set out for the kitchen, it was hard to tell how much everything else would change on them. But at least they’d face it together.  
  
**FIN**

****

[Artwork by gtpanda!](http://gtpanda.deviantart.com/)

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Aaa, the end is here! But it's not over forever... This AU will continue on in the future with plenty of shenanigans between Sherlock, Dean, John and Sam! The second story is already planned and plotted and needs editing!
> 
> This will be a partnership to remember!
> 
> Leave us a review to let us know what you think!
> 
> This was only the first story of Brothers Consulted! More will come!


	22. Epilogue: Lunch Break

By the time Sam and Dean made it to the kitchen, Sherlock was munching on his own sandwich. He'd gone with a simple turkey and mayo with a bit of lettuce, on a toasted slice of white bread folded in half. John's was halfway assembled on a plate with deli-sliced chicken, lettuce and tomato, and he was frying a few slices of bacon to top it all off.   
  
Sherlock noticed their return first; since John was busy the detective became the self-appointed lookout, leaning on the table facing the counter he'd found the brothers on all those weeks ago. He was in the middle of a large bite when they appeared, and he alerted the doctor with a muffled grunt around his food. John raised an eyebrow at Sherlock before noticing the Winchesters.  
  
"Oh, hey," he greeted, nodding at the spread of sandwich ingredients he'd laid out. He'd even flattened a slice of bread as best he could; the humans didn't exactly own a rolling pin. "I figured sandwiches would be manageable enough. Help yourselves." He grinned, sliding the freshly cooked bacon onto its own plate to cool for a second.  
  
Dean hesitantly stepped around a large beaker on the counter, staring down at the spread of food laid out for their ‘lunch.’  
  
It was  _so much food._  
  
The last time they’d seen food laid out for them, they were just regular kids eating at Pastor Jim’s. John was busy helping on a case, and they’d been mostly left up to their own devices until dinner, which was closer to a smorgasbord of delicious flavors.  
  
This time, naturally, the food was a lot bigger than they were, so it meant they could eat until they were full and keep going if they wanted to. They’d  _never_  had access to this kind of food since they were cursed. Dean barely knew where to start, and he found his mind wandering to thoughts of how much they could possibly slip into their bags when John and Sherlock weren’t looking, hoping to restock some of their supplies.  
  
Sam rubbed his neck surreptitiously behind Dean, instinctively trying to not draw attention to himself. He was unnerved by the feeling, though it was getting better. He smiled at John. “This is more than enough,” he said gratefully, though his eyes were drawn more to the fresher ingredients, the lettuce and tomato, than the bacon which Dean perked right up to see.  
  
John chuckled; seeing the brothers next to the food made it all look like enough to feed an entire  _clan_  of people their size. Even as he left one slice of bacon on the plate, putting the rest in his sandwich, he didn't have to worry about leaving enough for Dean and Sam. Dean was about half the size of that lone piece of bacon.  
  
Assembling his sandwich at last, John made his way toward the table. He shooed Sherlock out of the way of the chair and pulled it out to sit sideways. This way he could easily look at the detective, who settled down in the chair opposite John, or the brothers on the counter.  
  
"I was just telling John about St. Simon," Sherlock told Dean, leaning back in his chair to prop his feet up on the edge of the table. Then he pulled his phone from his pocket and clicked it on with a faint smirk. "Sent another email while we were chatting. Apparently she explained everything, and still left. His message seems  _less than pleased,_  but he asked me to thank you for him. For your input."  
  
Dean snorted. “He can be  _less than pleased_  all he wants, it’s not going to get her back anytime soon.” He caught Sam eyeing him up. “What?” he asked snippily.  
  
“So you talked to him?” Sam asked with a pointed look.  
  
Dean held out his hands. “ _Just_  talked. Over the phone. He has no idea who I  _really_  am.” He sent a scowl towards Sherlock for good measure. “The good detective so magnanimously let me in on the conversation.”  
  
" _Clearly,_  you wanted to participate," Sherlock shot back. "Having you actually join in was far less annoying than hearing you mutter to yourself the entire time."  
  
Dean’s lips thinned. “Wanting to participate ain’t the same thing as  _talking_  to another giant,” he grumbled. “And it’s not like anyone but Sam ever wanted to hear what I have to say before.”   
  
"Well, that list is a little longer now," John pointed out with a friendly smile. If one thing was for certain, he and Sherlock would never brush Dean or Sam off. Not after all their help.  
  
A moment ago, he'd been in the same boat as Sam, appalled that Sherlock would involve Dean so closely with the client. But after Sherlock explained the precautions he took to ensure Dean's true identity would remain hidden, the doctor was actually quite impressed by Sherlock's quick thinking and consideration.  
  
"You are still getting paid, though, right?" John pressed, digging into his sandwich.   
  
"Oh. Yes," said the detective, dismissively waving it off. "I should be receiving a cheque in the mail sometime soon. Apparently heartbreak doesn't factor into breaking contract."  
  
"Good," said John with a nod after he swallowed. "We need the rent."  
  
With Dean as a distraction, Sam sank to his knees to begin putting a sandwich of his own together. He wasn’t sure how he felt about Dean taking such risks, but he didn’t want to give up his chance to grab some food. Some  _extra_  food.  
  
Sending one surreptitious look over his shoulder to see Dean’s constant bristle, Sam took his knife out of his jacket to cut some bread down to size. The sharp edge of the blade, kept honed with a whetstone Dean had acquired for them a few years back, sliced clean through the bread, and followed suit on the lettuce and tomatoes. He piled some on his bread and slipped the rest he’d cut down into his bag, using the cling wrap he’d saved from his impromptu breakfast with John weeks ago to keep the juices from seeping into the leather.  
  
Adding in a few bits of chicken to his sandwich and his bag, Sam finished it all off with several crumbs of bacon and bit down on the sandwich, his eyebrows going up in appreciation of the flavor. Certainly, better food than they’d had in a long time.  
  
John glanced in Sam's direction and did his best not to stare. Not only was it fascinating to watch him work, but it was good to see the kid packing away a little extra for later. If they both did that, at least they wouldn't go hungry for a while.  
  
Not on John's watch.  
  
Dean didn’t have a witty comeback for John’s friendly offer, so he simply nodded back at the man. Sam appeared by his side, happily munching away at his sandwich.  
  
“You better have saved some for me!” Dean said, his attention flipping back to the food like a switch, and he pushed past Sam.  
  
Sam shook his head in bemusement. Personally, he found it hard to believe that Dean would chose arguing with Sherlock over food, but then again those two did have the strangest relationship he’d ever witnessed.  
  
With Dean making a sandwich of his own, slipping any food he thought he could get away with into his bag just like Sam (weighing heavier on the meat end of the food pyramid compared to Sam’s vegetables), Sam sat down on the countertop to enjoy his meal.  
  
John stifled a chortle, finding the idea of Sam using up any of the food in one go hilariously ridiculous. Sherlock smirked and finished off the last of his sandwich, kicking back in his chair with his hands folded behind his head.   
  
If John didn't know any better, he'd think the detective was  _relaxing_ , but he was almost certain Sherlock Holmes was incapable of such a thing. Whenever he was off a case, even as freshly as this one, he was always so agitated and impatient for the next one. Perhaps it hadn't hit him yet, John reasoned.  
  
Or, he realized on second thought, more likely it was that with the Winchesters around, he'd finally found something to occupy his mind in between.  
  
"Seems like you had fun, though," John commented, picking at his sandwich for a smaller bite.  
  
“First time outside in over a decade, you bet I had fun,” Dean said, strolling over to where Sam was eating away at his sandwich, his duffel bag hanging noticeably heavier at his side. The leather strap on top strained to hold it shut.  
  
“Want some vegetables to go with that?” Sam snickered as he saw Dean’s sandwich, as much meat as could fit between the two compressed slices of bread.  
  
“Dude, putting vegetables on this would be a  _crime,_ ” Dean said as he sank to the countertop next to Sam. He took a huge bite, closing his eyes in gastric ecstasy to savor the taste of real chicken, turkey and freshly-cooked bacon. “ _This_  is what I’m talking about!”  
  
It was quiet for a moment as Dean thoughtfully chewed his food, his mood turned serious. “Our lives ain’t exactly thrilling, y’know,” he said. “We get by, and sometimes we get to help solve a case, but it just wasn’t the same. Dark paths and hidden entrances, make sure nobody can find us. I got to go outside and feel the breeze, and that’s something after so long.”  
  
John's lunch was set aside in favor of listening to Dean. Hearing more about the brothers' perspectives wouldn't cease to captivate him for a long time.  
  
Dean had a point, one John hadn't considered in the scope of Sherlock and his misadventure. The doctor had primarily been focusing on the dangers the elder Winchester had faced, and hadn't given any thoughts to the potential  _benefits_.  
  
"I reckon more fresh air could do you some good," he mused. "Both of you."  
  
John hummed reflectively and glanced between Sherlock and Sam and Dean. "Y'know, the more I think about it, the more I feel like we'll be alright. That it'll all turn out… okay."  
  
“We always find a way,” Dean said firmly. “Don’t we, Sammy?”  
  
Sam rolled his eyes, resigned. “It’s  _Sam,_ ” he insisted, sounding like he’d said it a million times before. Dean just grinned and took another bite of his sandwich.  
  
“I wouldn’t mind taking a look at the laptop one time,” Sam said shyly, his ears red but his eyes eager. “It’s been a long time since I could actually read a book, and technology’s come a long way since we were kids.” He glanced towards the main room, thinking of the bookshelf their home bordered. There were too many books crammed into it to make reading a viable activity even if he could manage to shove one open.  
  
"Er, yeah!" John's brow shot up, unprepared for this turn of events. Sam was  _asking_  for something, the same kid who had dodged around letting John share what amounted to crumbs from his breakfast not too long ago. "Absolutely, yeah, anytime you like. I'll, ah, show you how to work it one of these days. Of course, you're welcome to the books as well. It might take a bit of trial and error, but I'm sure we could work out something doable."  
  
Sherlock lazily opened his eyes and glanced over his view of the main room. Part of the bookshelf on John's side could be seen and most of the one on Sherlock's. Between the pair of them, there were no  _small books_  in 221B. There were large novels and thick tomes, mostly hardcover. Nothing that even the taller and stronger of the Winchesters would be able to shift on his own. And while his counterpart was caught up in the emotions of the moment, the detective's gaze darted around what he could see of the room and he theorized the possible solutions John and Sam might come up with. Not that he'd bring them up right that second, it'd be no fun if he didn't let them experiment on their own.   
  
But it brought a small smirk to his lip to deduce the most likely method they'd choose to allow Sam easier access to the books of his choice.  
  
“Geek,” was Dean’s response to Sam’s hopeful question, and Sam elbowed him in the side, making him miss his next bite.  
  
“Least I studied in school!” Sam shot back.  
  
Dean hid a smile in the remainder of his sandwich. It was fun to tease Sam, but he often caught his younger brother staring wistfully at the tomes that lined their entrance in and out of the walls. It was good to know that Sam might be able to find out what was  _in_  those books now, after months of wondering.  
  
“Guess I’ll just have to try and keep up,” Dean mumbled around a mouthful of food that Sam gave him a glare over.  
  
John smiled at their banter, pondering the mutual trust and understanding needed to be able to playfully tease and fight with a sibling, and still have a healthy level of comfort between them. It almost made him want to call Harry up sometime, but that feeling didn't last. John was perfectly aware that he and his sister weren't nearly as close as Sam and Dean.  
  
"You two would be college kids right about now, wouldn't you?" John surmised with a nibble at his sandwich. He was beginning to think he hadn't been as hungry as he thought. Realizing he might be dipping his toe in unfriendly water with that question, he added, "I mean, if, y’know… nothing had happened."  
  
Dean huffed with laughter. “Trust me, doc, we weren’t bound for any  _academic success,_  if you catch my drift.”  
  
Sam frowned at him. “We coulda made it! Bobby always said you picked things up faster than any other person helping him with cars.”  
  
Dean waved his hand dismissively. “Because two kids who drifted to a new school once a month had an opportunity to go to college,” he said. Though he’d never set his sights on higher education himself, he’d resented the fact that every time they switched to a new district, the school was on a different syllabus, meaning no matter how well Dean knew the material at the old school, he was left in the dust in the new one.  
  
Sam stared down at the table. “Maybe dad would have left us at Bobby’s one year. Finished out class with the same people.”  
  
"Well… you never know, something could have turned out," John shrugged, unsure if it helped at all. He still knew very little about what Sam and Dean's lives were like before the curse, apart from a vague understanding of their life on the road.   
  
The name Bobby sounded familiar to John, and he distantly recalled Sam bringing him up once or twice. Sherlock perked up a little at the mention of a new person, but he refrained from grilling the brothers about him. He did start paying more attention to them again, trying to figure out who he was to them. He guessed family friend, but even John had gathered that.  
  
"What do you think you would have done, had you gone to uni?" asked the doctor, curiosity budding.  
  
Sam shrugged helplessly. He’d loved school, but never really gave much thought to where he was going all those years ago. Back then, there was so much time to think it over.  _Years_  before he even had to graduate. “Somewhere I could make a difference,” he said wistfully. “I always wanted to help people.”  
  
John nodded. "I was the same," he admitted. "Helping people, saving the world… Coming from a line of army doctors didn't hurt, either."  
  
He remembered being young and fancying himself a hero in the making. Growing up hearing his father and grandfather's war stories, reveling in the notion that  _that_ would be his destiny. The 'family business.’ As he got older and more savvy about how the world really worked, John decided that the world, and certainly his family, had plenty of heroes.  
  
He still became an army doctor, but not for glory anymore. Like Sam, John had wanted to make a difference in the world, even if no one would know his name.  
  
He supposed that helped being invalided home smart a little less.  
  
Dean finished off his sandwich and brushed his hands off. “That’s all that matters, ain’t it?” he asked wisely. “Helping people, no matter how we do it.”  
  
He pushed himself up from the counter and glanced around at the spread of food still waiting. There was no room in his stomach for seconds after his first enormous sandwich, and no more room in his duffel bag, strained as the leather was. And, based on the look of Sam’s satchel, no room in there either.   
  
“Guess we should probably head back home,” Dean said, thinking of the shelves they could fill with the food they’d squirreled away in their bags. It would go a long way between the two of them, but they couldn’t save it for long without a fridge of their own. He looked at John, and then Sherlock. “We’ll see you both around.”  
  
"Certainly will," Sherlock agreed, finally lowering his feet to sit properly in his chair. He folded his hands and gave the brothers one last once-over before they vanished again, probably for the rest of the day. He suspected a fascinating chapter of his life was just beginning.  
  
John smiled at Sam and Dean and gave a wave as they left. He still wasn't entirely sure if 'goodbye' was appropriate since they weren't technically going anywhere far. They would still be somewhere in the flat, hidden from John and Sherlock's sight.   
  
Once they were gone, John let out a long breath, still gobsmacked; he and the detective had engaged in an active  _partnership_  with the Winchesters. After everything they'd been through, they were still willing to work alongside humans because they  _cared_. He ran a hand through his close-cropped hair, quietly anticipating the days to come with great eagerness.  
  
"Are you gonna finish that?" Sherlock's baritone cut straight through John's thoughts.  
  
The doctor quirked an eyebrow at his flatmate, who was pointing at what remained of John's sandwich. Sherlock was never one to share food. He refused to eat during cases, insisting that digestion slowed him down, and when he  _did_  eat he was very particular and almost territorial about his own food. Asking for John's leftovers was certainly a new one.  
  
"I dunno if I'll ever understand you, Sherlock," muttered John, shaking his head as he slid his plate over.  
  
Sherlock smirked and picked up the sandwich. "You're just getting that now?"  
  
**FIN**

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Bigfoot's a Hoax has officially won the poll, but tonight we bring you the epilogue from the first story of the Brothers Consulted series, fully wrapping up The Study of the Four! 
> 
> **Next:** **[A Burglary at Baker Street](http://brothersapart.tumblr.com/post/162557360838/your-amazing-guessing-skills-continue-one-letter),** COMING SOON!
> 
> BROTHERS CONSULTED WILL RETURN
> 
> Comments and kudos are love!

**Author's Note:**

> Time to kick off a new AU once again, this time taking a trip to London! In this, Sam and Dean were never rescued by Walt Watch after their curse struck, and because of it, they were captured and taken away to be sold as pets, only to escape and find themselves across the ocean, stranded from the world they know by their size and distance.
> 
> John and Sherlock are written masterfully by The_Raconteur_24601, this wouldn't exist without her! 
> 
> For how Sam and Dean got to London, and a bit on their lives at 221B Baker Street before the start of this story, check out [Brothers Consulted Beginnings](http://archiveofourown.org/works/8811931/chapters/20204008).
> 
> If you want to know what we're up to between chapter postings, check out [Brothers Apart](http://brothersapart.tumblr.com/), the story blog dedicated to the different AUs of Brothers Apart! You'll find all our commissioned art, a ton of fanart, there's a contest going on this month, and daily updates on what we're doing at the time! For my lovely cowriters writing site (she also helps out on the BA blog as one of the admins), visit [borrowedtimeandspace](http://borrowedtimeandspace.tumblr.com/)!
> 
> Comments and kudos are love!
> 
> Next: March 12th 2017 at 9pm


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